Resurrection
by Love Out Of Lust
Summary: AU. Inspired by the television series 'In The Flesh.' This will be a long term fic. Some terms may be confusing to people who haven't watched ITF (I've provided a glossary), but the majority of the fic will deviate from the show.
1. Chapter 1

Glossary

Rotter: A derogatory term for the partially deceased, as they are referred to by those who are more sympathetic.

Rabid: A rotter in its untreated state.

The Rising: When the dead were brought back to life.

Neurotryptiline - The drug administered to rotters to keep them from turning rabid. It's administered through a hole in the rotters' necks, just above the spine.

Blue Oblivion: A drug which is able to revert rotters back to how they were in their violent, untreated state.

* * *

 _"And I'd choose you; in a hundred_ _lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you."_

— _Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars_

* * *

He becomes aware of someone following him within ten minutes of leaving home. The only sound is his own quiet footsteps along the pavement. The walk from the flat into town is deserted tonight; he doesn't pass a single person, and the air feels calm, still. He can't hear the rustling of the trees like he sometimes does, or a car alarm going off, or the sound of children's laughter echoing from houses.

But he knows there's someone. Someone watching him, someone on his trail. He's learnt to pick up on these things, to have these instincts, and it's been a long time since they've failed him. His body's learnt to listen to them, and it listens now; he walks even more slowly to try and cut off the noise completely, but he makes sure not to turn around, not to look far off so that whoever - or whatever - is after him will know that he can sense their presence.

He doesn't need this tonight. He's already late for the town meeting. He'd tried to get out of bath time, but Amy had insisted that he stayed. He'd been in a hurry drying Leah and Lucas's hair, roughly toweling it until the water no longer dripped down onto his clothes. He'd tucked them into bed, kissed them, promised he'd be back early tonight, that they'd never even know he was gone.

Sometimes he has to lie.

He pushes them from his head, knows he has to concentrate. It's dark out, and one of the street lights is broken. He wants to run - his legs are almost trying to move faster of their own accord, his brain telling him to move forward, to seek out somewhere crowded, somewhere where he won't be alone anymore.

"Don't be a fucking coward." He says it aloud to make it real, to make it so he can't fight against it. He tenses his hands until the shaking subsides, his knuckles turning white with the pressure, and reaches down to take out his gun.

He doesn't raise it. He keeps it by his side, turning his head ever so slightly to the left and right, scanning the road, preparing himself.

He knows it can't be a trick. It can't be someone sneaking up on him or playing a prank. They wouldn't do that, not in this town, not after everything that's happened. You don't catch people unawares here, don't even attempt it. He's being followed with intent. This isn't a game.

He hears it then: half way between a snarl and a roar, a noise which is familiar to his ears but which still causes him to shudder and spin around at lightning speed, almost dropping his gun in the process.

 _Breathe_ , _Ste_. _Breathe_.

It's what he expected: a rabid. Taller than him. Male. Ten, fifteen years older perhaps. The thing's dressed scruffily in a worn t-shirt, holed jeans and faded trainers. He hadn't been expecting that, for the rabid to look so _normal_. It looks like someone that Ste could meet anywhere, and he forces himself to focus on its face; takes in the deformity of its eyes, the stark paleness of its skin, almost translucent in colour. The rabid's body is contorting, and it advances towards him slowly, the gradual pace only making Ste grow more afraid. He wants this over with now. He wants this done.

This isn't the first rabid that Ste's seen on Blue Oblivion in recent months, but it's the first he's had to deal with alone. Small bottles of the stuff had somehow been passed around, and most of the takers have been caught and killed.

Ste hopes this is the last.

The rabid bares its teeth. Ste can smell it from here; the decay, the lingering residue that increases in strength the closer the thing gets. There's a blankness in its eyes that Ste's come to expect, but he only settles on them for a moment. He doesn't like looking at them when he pulls the trigger. He stares anywhere else instead - its shoulder, its arm, its legs - and watches as the rabid's body folds over and falls to the ground. It takes less than a minute for it to go down, just one shot of Ste's gun required.

Ste stares around him, expecting someone from one of the houses to come running out, or to see a curtain twitching and eyes peering from behind, trying to see what's going on.

There's nothing. There's just him and the body.

He gets out his phone and dials. He waits for someone to pick up, his gun still in his hand.

"It's me. I'm going to need your help."

::::::

They shift the body together, putting it in the boot of Tony's car and driving until they've reached a spot where they can bury it. Tony's prepared, has brought a shovel which they pass between the two of them, taking it in turns to dig at the earth underneath until one of them tires.

Ste's the first one to need a break. He passes the shovel to Tony, sitting on the untouched earth next to him, trying not to look across at the body.

"You did good work, Ste." Tony's voice is full of encouragement. It's too forced, too reassuring to make Ste feel at ease.

"Thanks," he says, knows that's what Tony wants to hear. He chews at his lip, feeling the skin there peeling, coming apart. "The others aren't mad at me, are they? For missing the meeting."

Tony laughs. "Mad? You're their new favourite person."

"You what?"

"You killed a rabid single handedly, Ste. Not even Warren's done that."

Ste frowns. "But what about all them stories?" They're famous in this town; Warren being cornered by four rabids, coming away from it with nothing more than a bruise and a scratch.

Tony gives him a look. "Yes, because Warren Fox has never lied before. Come on. You don't really believe all of that?"

"Well it did seem a bit unlikely..."

They laugh. They throw the rabid into the open grave, scattering dirt and earth over its body.

Tony ruffles Ste's hair.

"You're a hero, mate."

::::::

Amy's waiting up for him when he comes home. He's quiet opening the door, so quiet that it seems to startle her when she sees him, jumping from where she's standing near the hallway.

"Sorry," he whispers, hanging his jacket up, making sure that he doesn't get mud from his shoes all over the carpet.

All he can think about is sleep. He plans to brush his teeth and take his clothes off - onto the floor, putting them away can wait till morning - and be in his bed as soon as possible. But Amy's like a barrier blocking him, staring at him expectantly like she's got other things in mind.

He tries to get past, but she spreads her arms so they're touching one side of the wall and the other.

"Gun." Her voice is steely, her face devoid of emotion. But he knows her; he know that she would have spent hours preparing for this moment, for the courage to say this to him.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

"I'm not -" The protest dies on his lips when he takes in her expression, the way it breaks, the way her lip trembles before the mask goes up again. She deserves better than this. Better than him. He takes his gun out of his back pocket. He'd been hoping that he would be able to sneak past her and avoid her seeing it. He realises now how naive he'd been.

He places the gun in her hands, and she immediately puts it out of arms reach.

"Ames, I'm sorry."

She's walking away from him and into the living room. He watches as she stands on a chair and stores the gun on the highest shelf, where the kids won't be able to get to it. She pushes it back as far as possible, behind some photographs so that Ste can't even see it when he looks up.

When she's climbed down she's right up in his face, eyes wide and furious.

"You promised me. You _promised_ me you wouldn't keep it in the house anymore." She jabs at his chest. It barely makes an impact, doesn't even make him stumble back, but he can feel how much she hates him, can feel the sting of it.

"I was going to get rid of it, I swear." He sees the way she laughs in derision, shaking her head at him like he's fed her another lie. "I was! I was going to give it to Warren to keep, but I..."

He stops. He hadn't had time to think about what his plan was going to be. His night had been mapped out for him: he'd go to the meeting, give Warren the gun and explain that he couldn't store it in the flat anymore, that Amy didn't want it around the kids. He knew it would result in an argument - Warren never made anything easy, never gave him a free ride if he could make his life hell instead - but he'd be rid of the thing at last, either way. He'd be able to return home with his conscience clean, knowing that Amy would be able to look at him again, that she'd stop seeing him as someone who had put their kids in danger.

"What, Ste? You what?"

She's waiting, and he can feel himself panicking, fighting for excuses. He'd rather she be scared of a gun accidentally going off than think that he could have died fighting a rabid tonight. She might not even want to leave the house again, knowing that one of those things was within touching distance of them.

Ste looks away from her, sinking into the nearest chair, his shoulders sagging.

"I just forgot, that's all."

He doesn't apologise. He can't bear to hear the sound of it from his own lips. He should have done something with the gun. He should have done fucking _anything_ , anything but bring it back into their home, into their lives.

"I'm going to bed," Amy says, and it's a shock the way all the energy has left her voice, like it's been sucked out, nothing but exhaustion and a crushing sense of disappointment there now.

"Okay." He's so quiet that he doubts she hears him. She pads out of the room as softly as a child, overlarge dressing gown swamping her, and she switches off the light so that he's plunged into darkness. He sits in it a while; must be only a few seconds, not more than a minute, but his eyes adjust enough that the light from the bathroom mirror makes him squint when he brushes his teeth. He looks down at the sink, staring away from his reflection, hands gripping the basin to hold him up.

He falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, but it's not a dreamless sleep, not something that leaves his mind free. The nightmare begins the same way it always does. Its familiarity is almost comforting; he's flying but he can't fly high enough, and then he's running but he can't run fast enough, and the thing that he's trying to escape from is catching up to him, hot on his heels and unrelenting, and he's no match for it. He knows that his time is up, knows that this can't go on forever.

Then the nightmare switches, almost instantaneously. Fear grips him, makes his breathing different, more gasps than breaths now. He hasn't got his gun in the dream - his hands are the weapon, the thing that's making him strong, and he's in a forest now, tearing through it at a speed which no human could be capable of, but _he_ is, _he's_ capable. He's still being chased, but the stakes are higher now - Ste doesn't know how he knows this, he just _does_ \- and he's someone's prey. Something's prey. They're reaching the end now, and there's a closing in the forest that tells him that there won't be anywhere else to run. He can't fly anymore, he can't spread his wings and create distance between him and the thing that wants to kill him. He's trapped.

He turns around, faces the thing that's moving closer and closer towards him, that's making sweat gather on his brow and trickle down his armpits and back. _I need to be strong_. He repeats it like a mantra inside his head and forces himself to shift, to lean forward slightly, back no longer against the oak of the tree behind him. He's not going to die like this. If this is the end then he can't go out defeated; he has to go out in flames, to give everything.

He drives himself forward, barely knowing what he's doing. He's wild with it, wild with adrenaline and fear and determination, and it makes him brave, makes him look straight into the rabid's eyes as he gets closer. The eyes are blank, but they follow Ste as he circles it, tracking his every movement. It's like they're dancing round each other, seeing who's going to give in first, who's going to break and be the one to fall.

The rabid surges forward, and Ste's both surprised and ready for it: he leaps back to protect himself, then realises that there is no protecting, not from this. After a moment's hesitation he's on the rabid, all over it, hands tearing chucks out of it, grabbing at its neck and face and struggling body, anywhere that he can get access to. He's ferocious with it, clawing, digging in his nails, spitting at its face until he can hear a deep groan coming from the rabid, and he knows, he _knows_ it's nearly over, that it's giving up, that he's overpowering it.

Still Ste fights; he knows this could all be a trick, that they're cunning even when they're out of control like this, that the rabid could be pretending. He uses all the strength he has left to put an arm around its throat, then balls his hand into a fist and slams it into the rabid's chest. It goes through layers of flesh, and his hand secures around its heart - in his nightmares, the rabids always have hearts, and breath, and skin that's a startling mixture of both hot and cold - and he rips it from the rabid's chest, the light leaving its eyes as it sinks to the floor.

Ste dusts himself off. He's bleeding, isn't sure whether it's from the rabid or from himself, and he's covered in a thick substance, almost like a solid smoke which sticks to him even when he wets his hand and rubs at the area, trying desperately to remove it. He's coughing, wheezing, and feels more thirsty than he's ever felt in his whole life, his throat raw from it.

But he's alive.

When he wakes from these particular dreams he always feels the dampness of tears on his cheeks, his heart hammering in his chest, his fingers gripping the sheets underneath him tightly enough to tear through.

Shame courses through him, white-hot and lingering, and a fear that takes hours to subside. He's not scared of nearly dying in the dream; he's scared of what he's done. The violence of it. The way he holds the rabid's heart in his hands, removed from its body, vulnerable and fragile, and his to break.

The heart doesn't seem different. It doesn't seem like it's anything but human.

::::::

He's up early. He checks that the kids are fast asleep, opening their bedroom doors and watching their small chests rise and fall, registering the way that Leah has the covers drawn up to her neck, while Lucas has them sprawled around him haphazardly. They both look tiny, alarmingly so. It weighs on him sometimes, how their life is in his hands.

He quietly makes two cups of tea in the kitchen and carries them to Amy's bedroom. He hears no reply when he knocks, but he hadn't expected to. Experience tells him that she'll fake sleeping when she's mad at him, leaving him to make the kids' breakfast and get them dressed and ready for school while she calms down, gets to a state where she can be near him without arguing again. He's not going to let it come to that, not this time. He's always stood back and let it happen, let things play out. He can't keep on relying on that. One day he might not have anything left to hold onto.

Amy's lying under the covers when he comes in, eyes closed. Ste can tell from the way her face is set that she's not sleeping; she looks too serene. He's seen her in sleep, has slept beside her, and she frowns, deep creases stretching across her forehead. Or she bites down on her lip like she's concentrating hard.

Ste takes advantage of this knowledge of her, sitting down on the bed next to her, making the mattress dip, careful not to spill the tea.

"No sugar, lots of milk." He waits, and after a moment's pause she lets out an elongated sigh, sitting up reluctantly against the headboard. She seems to be refusing to look at him as she takes the mug from his hands, and there's no thank you.

"Kids up yet?" Her throat sounds sore, congested.

"No. Don't worry, I'll sort everything out when they are."

"Just don't give them any of that sugary crap that pretends to be cereal, alright? They were bouncing off the walls yesterday."

"I wasn't going to. I'll make them some toast or cereal or something. Different cereal," he adds when Amy throws him a glance out of the corner of her eye. "Come on. Give me a break. I'm trying."

It's always a struggle to get them to eat anything in the mornings, and he'd been trying to give them a reason to get out of bed, to see clean bowls at the end of it.

"That's the thing, Ste. You always try, but you never actually _do_ anything, do you?"

It knocks the breath out of him. He slumps in on himself, drawing the covers up with his free hand and holding his tea with the other, taking sips from it. It's still too hot and it burns the roof of his mouth, but he winces through it and continues, needing something to do with his hands. Maybe Amy realises she's gone too far, because Ste feels her elbow against his, the lightest touch but it's something, some form of closeness, and her voice is softer when she speaks again.

"I got my hopes up." It sounds like she's telling him a secret, something that's being torn from her. "When you told me that you were going to get rid of the gun, I hoped..."

"I know. I hoped too."

"See." She turns to him, and she's grabbed his arm like she thinks she can convince him, can make him understand if she just keeps hold of him. "Even you see how wrong this is."

"Amy..." He can't get into all this again. They've been through it too many times, and there's only ever been one resolution: he continues what he's doing, what he's always done, because for him there is no other option.

"Just tell them. Just tell them it's all over."

"It's not that simple."

She knows it's not, like she's always known.

"I can't just tell Warren to fuck off, that I'm done with it all. They'll see me as a traitor, that I'm switching sides."

"Who cares? They're idiots, Ste. They're no one."

"You know what'll happen if I leave."

"They can't touch us. They wouldn't hurt us. They wouldn't. We're... we're _human_."

"We are, but..." He tries to word this as delicately as he can, can see the alarm growing within her. "You know they'd look for a weak spot. They'd dig around, try and find something. Ames, they'd... they'd find out about your sister."

Amy's still holding onto his arm; her grip tightens, her nails digging in enough to hurt.

"They couldn't know. She's... she uses the cover up every day. Every time I go round there she's got it on."

"Do you really think they can't see through that?" Ste brings her closer, bringing her into his warmth, arm wrapped around her. "They know how to find out things. They've been doing this for years, longer than I have. They're not going to be fooled by a layer of cover up mousse and some contact lenses. They'll know that Sarah's... you know... one of them. They'll find out about the accident, about the funeral, and they'll know that she's..."

"Dead."

::::::

It's rare that he has the whole flat to himself. He's used to it being filled with the noise and life of the kids, or the sound of Amy watching television or talking loudly on the phone to one of her friends.

This stillness, this silence, it's almost disturbing.

He puts the radio on loudly while he does the dishes, making everything tidy for when Leah, Lucas and Amy come home. He'd told Amy to promise that she'd let him know when she arrives safely to her dad's place, and after an hour of him being alone his phone vibrates, her telling him that they're all okay.

He can breathe easier now.

He knows why she's gone. After the talk of Sarah she'd been desperate to get away, to see her sister and her dad. He tries to enjoy the peace. He considers ordering a pizza for lunch, to make a proper thing of it, but he's too hungry to wait for it to be delivered, and he raids the cupboards instead, piling anything that's edible onto a plate and eating while the television acts as background noise.

He's alone for less than two hours before he starts to feel it creeping up on him, that loneliness, that nagging sense that he needs to talk to someone, that he can't be left like this, his own thoughts the only thing to fill the space.

He remembers why he's been avoiding this, why he always occupies his time with the kids and Amy, with being part of the Human Volunteer Force. There's always a schedule, always a job, always something that needs doing. He's forgotten how to do this, how to just _be_.

He's forgotten what it's like to be a normal person.

He leaves his dirty plates in the sink, grabbing his computer and curling up with it on his knees on the sofa. It's been so long since he went on the site that he'd forget what it's called if it wasn't saved in his bookmarks; even so it takes him a while to find it, and when he does a hundred memories come flooding back: Amy teasing him one night, egging him on until he'd joined, watching him while he created a profile and uploaded a picture. She'd helped him to fill out the various boxes. It had been easy at first - name, age, location, job - but then he'd had to put some details about himself, about what he liked, about who he was, and what should have been simple seemed impossible. He didn't know what would impress a person, what would sound good on paper.

Staring at the photo he'd chosen, he wonders what he'd been thinking. It's an old one, back when he'd had a fringe, one long enough so that someone could have swept it back with their fingers, tucked it behind his ear. He hates it, can't believe that Amy had allowed him to walk around like that. No wonder the only action he's had in the last few years is a drunken fumble with a blond called Rae, sharing a kebab with her the next morning before a series of uncomfortable dates (and fucks) that hadn't gone anywhere serious.

He's a fucking disaster.

He changes the photo, taking his time to choose. He wants one where he's smiling - his straight faced ones all tend to look like mug shots - and something that hides his body as much as possible. He's already marked his body type down as _slim_ , but he doesn't need something that draws attention to that fact even more.

He considers putting up a photo that shows him with an old friend, a guy called Justin who he'd known years ago, but there's one problem: Justin had always been popular with girls, far more than him, and what if someone thinks that's him and only gets in touch because they're expecting someone blond, someone more muscular than he is?

In the end he settles for a photo of him smiling, close lipped, and leaning against the wall - one of the only walls in the flat that isn't covered in pictures the kids had done - in his leather jacket. It's a bit try hard, he reckons, and he doesn't know if he can pull off leather, but his hair's decent enough, and he's still got a hint of a tan from that summer. He waits for it to upload, nibbling his nails as the screen slowly changes to the new picture, and he presses save.

He's about to shut down the computer when he stops, hovering the cursor over the screen. He looks behind his shoulder; it's pointless doing it, he knows that he's still the only one in the flat, but he makes sure that there's silence before he continues.

He can't see his competition, can't see all the other men that he's up against. It's part of his settings - he's selected _interested in women_ , so that's all he can see. He wants to know, wants to find out if he even stands a chance or if he should delete his profile entirely, admitting defeat. He's barely heard anything back anyway; his inbox remains embarrassingly empty, only ever filled with invitations to group social events billed as _an amazing opportunity to meet new people_. The idea of it makes him feel queasy.

He clicks it in a rush, changing his settings at lightning speed: _interested in men and women._ There's no harm done. No one will ever know.

Ste draws the laptop closer to him, the heat from it warming his legs. His mouth feels dry and he wets his lips with his tongue as he scans the page, eyes struggling to take everything in all at once, scrolling frantically down until everything becomes a blur.

He forces himself to stop, to concentrate. _Calm down. Take this in. Stop being a prick._

He takes a breath, goes slower this time and looks at the faces, properly looks. He was right to choose a photo of himself smiling - some of the guys look like potential serial killers, others like they haven't seen daylight in ten years. He feels a stab of pity for them, dressed in mismatched clothes and desperately trying to sell themselves in their profiles.

But there are others. He lingers on their profiles, reading everything they've written, searching through their photos, leaving them on the screen for several minutes before moving on.

One catches his eye.

 _Callum. Twenty eight. Interested in men. Likes: travelling, going to the cinema, eating out, sport._

He's got dark brown hair and stubble, with broad shoulders and blue eyes. He's a builder, works on a construction site a few miles from here. _Message me if you want to talk_ , he's written, and there's a winky face after it.

Beside his profile is a woman with blond hair, her breasts protruding to the camera, her mouth covered in a thick, bright layer of lipstick.

 _Veronica. Thirty. Interested in men. Likes: keeping fit, meals out, animals, dancing._

Ste clicks on her profile, starts to write a message. Nothing too forward, nothing that'll scare her off and make his message sit in her inbox unanswered.

 _Hi. I'm Ste. You look nice..._

He considers briefly whether the dots make him look like a pervert, then deletes them when he decides they do.

He's about to press send when he minimises the window and brings Callum's profile up again.

 _Message me if you want to talk._

Ste types hurriedly before he can lose his nerve.

 _Hi. I'm Ste. Thought your profile looked good._

He deletes it, starts again.

 _Alright? How are you?_

Too bland. Too like everything this guy's probably received a thousand times before. Deleted again.

 _Hiya!_

Fucking hell. Deleted.

 _Hi. I'm sort of new to all this..._

He sounds like an inexperienced virgin, a deer caught in the headlights. Deleted.

 _I think I might be bisexual._

Deleted.

 _I think I might be gay._

Deleted.

He closes the screen, turns off the computer and goes to bed.

::::::

He's woken by the sound of his phone buzzing. He knew he should have switched it off in the night.

Flinging his covers aside, he snatches up his phone and looks at the caller display.

Warren.

He strongly considers pressing ignore and going back to sleep, but he knows he'll pay the price if he does.

"Hello?" He makes sure he sounds as alert as possible, not wanting to give away that he was deep in sleep moments before. He listens as Warren greets him as he always does: calls him _Ratboy_ like he's snarling it down the line.

"What's going on?" He knows there's something, always some task or patrol to go to.

"You're needed."

Ste can hear the background noise. It sounds like Warren's in the pub with the rest of the volunteer force already.

"Can it wait a bit? I need a shower." He smells his t-shirt; he _definitely_ needs a shower.

"No it can't wait," Warren says, like Ste's suggested something terrible. "Meet us at the pub in ten minutes, alright?"

"Ten minutes? Warren, I can't even get from my flat to the village in ten minutes - "

The line goes dead before Ste can continue arguing.

"Fuck sake." He gets out of bed and rushes to the bathroom. He can hear the sound of the kids floating down the hall, knows that they must be having breakfast. He shuts the bathroom door behind him and looks in the mirror, taking in his bed-messed hair and the dark rings around his eyes. He must have drooled in the night; his salvia has crusted around his mouth. He wipes it away hastily then grabs the deodorant, spraying it everywhere before brushing his teeth, trying to combine it with making his hair more presentable.

He almost falls over when running around the kitchen, grabbing a piece of toast that's just popped up.

"That's mine," Amy says, but she makes no attempt to get it off him, seems to know that any confrontation's best avoided this morning. "Let me guess - Warren?"

Ste kisses her cheek, strokes the kids' hair.

"I won't be long."

"That's what you always say."

"Come on, Amy. Don't be like a nagging wife."

She shoots him a look, but glances at the kids and doesn't pursue it. Ste mouths _I'm sorry_ before leaving through the front door, half the slice of toast still hanging out of his mouth.

He breaks into a sprint when he's out of the house, clutching his side and ignoring the stitch that soon starts to form. He ignores the curious looks of the people he passes, and by the time he reaches the pub he's red faced and panting. He has no time to recover. He's already half an hour later than Warren had expected, and it earns him a slap around the head when he greets the group and takes his seat.

He rubs at his head, grumbling under his breath. He hadn't expected a round of applause at killing the rabid, but he'd expected _something_.

"Glad that you could all finally join us," Warren begins, eyes not leaving Ste. "Really generous of you."

"I said I was sorry." Ste crosses his arms, slumping into his seat, bottom lip jutting out. "What's this about anyway? Since when do we have meetings on a Sunday? It's meant to be like... you know, a day of... rest. God's day and all that."

The entire group seem to look at him.

"What?" He mumbles, self conscious now.

"When was the last time you went to church?" Warren asks.

"That's not... that's not the point, is it?"

"No, come on, when was it? Last week? Last month? Last year? Never in your life?"

Ste buries himself deeper into his chair, half the height of Warren now. His silence sounds like defeat.

Warren continues, facing away from him now. He doesn't look at him even as he addresses him.

"Ste, I introduced a new member while you weren't here."

"Right." He's used to getting new members, people who leave just as quickly as they join. They think it'll be something fun, something glamorous, something exciting. Getting a gun, playing hero for a day. When they realise the long hours and the death risk that's involved they soon try and wrangle their way out of the agreement. The few that stay longer than a couple of weeks later lose their nerve when faced with their first real rabid.

"He's just moved here," Warren says.

That surprises Ste. Chester isn't a town that people move to. Leave from, yes - plenty of people have left over the years, on the basis of getting a better life. More like getting the hell out of this fucking town, as far away as possible. Ste would do the same if he could afford anywhere else.

Ste looks over at where Warren's nodding his head to. He sees a man sitting beside Tony, must be in his late thirties, his hair beginning to thin the smallest amount. He's dressed in a suit, and when Ste smiles at him he doesn't smile back.

"This is Danny Houston."

All the group look over to him. Danny's expression remains cold.

Pleasantries over, Warren gets to the point.

"There's been a reported sighting. We've cornered the..." Warren stops, gestures with his hands, seems to be searching for the appropriate word. " _Thing_ ," he settles for, applying the most disgust to it that he can. "We've got it locked in the treatment centre."

There's a hum of appreciation and Warren looks smug, like he'd been planning for this moment.

"We're going to make sure it's learnt its lesson."

"How?" Ste asks.

"I'm sure you can think of something."

"Me?" Ste's voice comes out high pitched. He clears it, noticing the corners of Danny's mouth twitch. "What do you mean, me?"

"This one's all yours, Hay."

"What?"

"Last one was Darren's. This one's yours." Warren places a hand on Ste's shoulder, the pressure strong. "You deserve it."

Ste looks across at Tony imploringly. _Help me._

Tony opens his mouth, mumbles _Warren_ but he's one step ahead of him, already has a hand up to silence him.

"You've got your gun, haven't you?" Warren says, and he's not trying to hide his smile now.

"Yeah." Ste can't pretend he's forgotten it at home; it's digging into his hip, a reminder now of what he's expected to do.

"Good. Then let's go."

::::::

The treatment centre is a short distance from the hospital, almost attached to the grounds. They walk there, and Ste's grateful for the open air and the chance to put some distance between himself and Warren. He's not sure he could face being squeezed inside a car with him, forced to either make small talk or be met with an uncomfortable silence.

They say little as they make their way there. Ste had expected the rest of the group to tag along, but Warren had said this was a two man venture.

"What's that Danny Houston like then?" Ste says. If he can concentrate on this, on anything but what's waiting for him at the treatment centre, then maybe his fear will subside.

"What's it to you?"

"Just wondering." He wishes it didn't always have to be like this, so strained and difficult, no question simply answered.

"You'll find out for yourself."

There's an edge to Warren's voice that Ste doesn't like.

When they've arrived, Warren holds open the door for Ste to step into the centre first. It's not out of kindness or curtsey; he's not being a gentleman. He stares at Ste like he knows he's in danger of bottling it, and it makes Ste more determined. He'd been slumping on the walk here, trawling his feet along the pavement, but now he draws himself up to full height and walks into the building.

The quietness takes on an eery quality. The place is usually bustling with doctors and other members of staff, and there's nearly always a receptionist present. But there seems to be no one here today - a result of it being the weekend, Ste assumes - and the door creaks loudly as it swings shut behind them.

For a moment he wonders if Warren's brought him here for another reason. He knows Ste's got his gun on him, but Warren has the advantage here - bigger, stronger, more prepared for whatever's about to happen. Suddenly Ste doesn't like the distance between them, and he takes a few steps forward so that they're almost side by side, where he can see Warren properly now.

"Warren..." He begins, and there's a shake to his voice that he worries will betray him.

Warren ignores him, nodding towards the room in front of them with a closed door, one of the doctor's offices. "In there."

"Are you... are you coming with me?"

Warren stares at him incredulously, then grabs Ste's arm and pulls him forward, throwing open the door.

He's been in this room before. It's one of the larger offices in the treatment centre. There aren't any curtains; instead the windows are boarded up, the only light coming from the cracked bulb hanging on the ceiling. Warren turns the light switch on so that they can see better, but Ste's already taken in the room, already knows what's inside.

There's a cage, small enough to fit in the room, large enough to hold a person. No, not a person - a _thing_.

They've disturbed it. It's pressed against the front of the cage, staring at them, watching what they'll do next. Its mouth is set into a hard line, its eyes large and dark, its hair sticking up at odd angles. It's dressed in a black suit, but the shirt seems too small, the buttons looking like they're set to burst. It has a bruise under its right eye, and the most distinctive moustache Ste's ever seen.

Ste looks at Warren. "What am I meant to do?"

"I want you to play with it."

" _Play_ with it?"

Warren grins. "Torture it, Ste. Kill it. Do whatever the fuck you want."


	2. Chapter 2

There's a noise in his head, a pressure there like a thousand flames are sparking, coming to life. He's against the door, back pushed into it, eyes to the floor. He can't look. He _can't_. He'd rather risk Warren thinking he's a coward, hiding in the corner of the room like he is, a shaking, fearful presence.

The thing in the cage hasn't moved. It watches them both, silent.

Warren stares at him expectantly: _Well?_

Ste mumbles something. It isn't a _no_ but it isn't a _yes_ either, and surely that counts for something. He's not giving his consent. Everything at the pub was so rushed, so hurried, and he didn't have time to consider what he'd be doing, that this was expected of him.

He shouldn't have backed himself against the door. He's got nowhere to run now, and when Warren advances on him he's powerless, trapped.

"What's taking so long?" Warren's breath is hot in his face.

"You never said that it would be just me. I thought I'd have the others with me." He trails off, feeling more and more pathetic. He sounds like he's grappling to find excuses, and he can see by Warren's reaction that he's said the wrong thing.

"You took down a rabid single handedly. You're scared of _this_? Really?"

Ste doesn't explain that it was dark that night. That he hadn't been able to see the rabid clearly. That he'd had no time to think, no time to form doubts or to be so scared that it made it impossible to react and fight back. The rabid had been wild, would have most certainly killed him. But the thing staring back at him in the cage isn't bearing its teeth at him, or trying to force its way out of its prison, or looking at him with malicious intent.

"It doesn't look very... scary." He lowers his voice, keeps it at a whisper, but the thing in the cage is still looking at him, and Ste has the strangest feeling that it can hear what he's saying.

"What do you want it to do, foam at the mouth and start trying to eat your brains? It's a monster, Ste. Don't forget that."

"Yeah, but it's... I mean it's not on Blue Oblivion, is it? It doesn't look..."

"It's not wearing its contacts or mousse." Warren looks at the cage, and there's such disgust in his eyes that it makes Ste flinch. "Deal with it. I'll be back in an hour."

Ste tries to argue, tries to stop him; grabs at Warren's sleeve and tries to make him stay, but he's shrugged off forcefully enough to make him lose his footing, and he stumbles back as he hears the door close behind him, the sound of the key in the lock.

He cries out, desperate and high pitched, just his name at first, _Warren_ , but then more: _Stop fucking around, just come back here and let me out._

In the end he has no choice but to realise that Warren's gone.

Slowly he turns back to face the room. He half expects this to be one of his nightmares, and he pinches himself under his clothing so he won't be seen, trying to wake himself up. But the cage is still here in front of him, and he's still not the only one in the room.

He takes out his gun from his back pocket, holding it firmly in his hands. He's at an advantage, he reminds himself; he's the one with the weapon, the one who can do the real damage here. But even if he knows it, the thing in the cage doesn't: even at the sight of the gun it doesn't slink back. It stays pressed against the bars, and there's no discernible fear in its eyes. It unnerves Ste, this lack of emotion.

He has a proper chance to look now, and his eyes are inadvertently drawn to the moustache. He tries to remember if he's ever seen a rotter with facial hair before, but he draws a blank. There must have been someone - someone with a beard or a moustache or a hint of stubble, but he's never seen anything like _this_ before. It's long - horseshoe, is it called, or handlebar? - and it would dominate its entire face if it wasn't for those eyes. It shouldn't be a shock to see them, especially after facing the rabid nights previously, but it is. He's grown used to the contacts, to the human look of them, to the way they can deceive. The cover up mousse, too - the slight orange tint to it, and the thickness, and the way it both blends in and stands out in a crowd. In front of him is pale skin, completely untouched, no mask or disguise, and there's no hint of shame in the thing's face. It's staring at Ste without apology.

Ste crosses the room, gun pointed at the cage. If he's going to do this - and he is, because there's no alternative - then he has to show the rotter who's in charge here from the start.

His mind is spinning. A simple shot to the body, like with the rabid he last killed? Or shall he go for something more impressive, something that's more likely to please Warren? He can see a key on the windowsill; it must be for the cage. He could open it, face the rotter head on, kill it like a man, a hero. There's something that feels wrong about firing behind bars.

He's never killed one of them in its treated state; calm, almost docile, no sense that it's about to attack.

 _Focus on the eyes. Focus on the skin._ He takes in the abnormality there.

 _It's a monster, Ste. Don't forget that._

He raises his gun, aims for the monster's chest.

And then it speaks.

"It's wrong, it's just _wrong_ that Warren would send a boy to do a man's job."

It startles Ste enough for him to almost drop his gun. He has a feeling he's gawping now; he closes his mouth, shakes his head like by doing so he can clear it.

He hadn't expected the rotter to speak like it has. It's unmistakably Irish, its voice low, almost drawling. It's unusual in these parts; nearly everyone he knows sounds like him, northern.

"What?"

The rotter doesn't say anything. Its eyes flicker slowly down Ste's body and up again. It feels like an assessment, like he's being judged.

"What?" He says again, his discomfort growing.

"How old are you?" There's a mocking edge to it, as though he's being spoken down to. "Eighteen, nineteen?"

"I'm twenty one," Ste says sharply, doesn't know whether to feel offended by the remark. "I'm not a _boy_ , if that's what you're getting at."

He doesn't like this. Doesn't like this back and forth conversation. They shouldn't be _having_ a conversation. But he wants to know more.

"How do you know Warren's name, anyway?"

"I can hear, you know. I'm not deaf. Your conversations, you speaking to him."

"Right." Ste wonders what else the rotter's heard. He's seen first hand how Warren can be around the undead. He doesn't talk _to_ them, he talks _about_ them. Has entire conversations revolving around them without ever once addressing them.

"He's a real idiot, isn't he?"

"Huh?"

"Fox. That's his name, isn't it? Warren Fox?"

"Yeah, that's... He's not a..." He finds himself unable to deny it. Warren _is_ an idiot. The rotter seems to read his mind; Ste's sure he sees his expression shift and give something like a smile.

"Thought I'd humour him though. Let him drag me here. See what he had in mind."

Ste frowns. He doesn't know if he's meant to be buying this routine, but it's difficult to imagine the rotter planning this, being in control. No one's in control against the Human Volunteer Force. That's the whole point.

"I see he left his best boy - sorry, _man_ \- in charge of the job." Again the rotter's eyes travel over Ste's body. It leans back a little like it's taking in the view. Ste grows hot, his skin turning a mottled pink.

"Yeah, he did." He raises his voice, puffs out his chest - he hopes impressively, instead of comically - and lifts the gun up so it's aimed squarely at the rotter's face once more.

He waits. They both do.

"Well?" The rotter cocks its head to the side, staring at Ste curiously like he's fascinated by the display. "Are you going to get on with it, or..."

"You're asking me to kill you?"

"I'm not asking for anything. You've got a task though, ain't you? Fox says jump, you ask how high. Seems like that's the game to me."

"This isn't a game." He lowers the gun the smallest amount, keeps his focus on the cage.

"No? Come on, this is the stuff that dreams are made of. You finally get to kill the bad guy. Who wouldn't want that?"

Maybe this is a game. Maybe that's why Ste feels like he's losing.

"Aren't you... I don't know, scared?"

 _Please say no._ This could all work as long as the rotter says no.

"I'm not scared of anything."

The relief that Ste had expected to feel doesn't come.

"Is that why you're not... you know..." Ste points to his own eyes, then to his skin, then at the rotter.

The rotter gives a short laugh, devoid of warmth.

"Wearing contacts? Putting make up on?"

"You have to. It's the rules." Ste feels vaguely ridiculous saying it, trying to be the voice of authority.

"You ever put those contacts on, kid?"

Ste's about to reply when the rotter interrupts.

"Course not, you're human." It waves a dismissive hand. "They hurt like hell."

"I thought they were just like... you know, normal contacts."

Fuck. They're having a discussion. A _chat_. Ste glances quickly at the clock attached to the wall: he still has fifty minutes to go. Fifty minutes in which to do this.

"I don't know what contacts are like. Never wore them when I was alive. But I'm guessing they don't feel like you're putting fucking glass in your eyes."

It shakes Ste. _When I was alive._ He tries to imagine this thing as a man. A walking, talking, breathing, living man. A man with a past. A man who had been a child once. A man with a future. He could have had a wife and kids. He could still have those things - they could all be out there waiting for him, not knowing that he's turned into this.

"And the mousse?" He asks, a tremble to his words that wasn't there before.

"Do I look like I wear make up?"

"You have to," Ste repeats, sees the rotter shoot him a look.

"Takes forever to scrub off. I don't suit it, trust me. I look like I've just had a nasty accident with fake tan."

Is the rotter _joking_ with him now? Ste doesn't know whether to laugh or not.

"You're not from here, are you?" It's all Ste can think to say. Chester's a small place. He would have noticed someone like this before.

"Just moved here from Belfast."

Ste tries to think of what he's heard about Ireland. He doesn't remember hearing anything about lenient laws. As far as he knows they're just as strict as over here, which means that the rotter's deliberately acting out wherever he goes.

"Are you visiting someone?"

"Nosy fellow, aren't you?"

Ste colours.

"I'm here to stay. My sister lives here."

 _Sister_. Ste wonders if she's like the rotter, or if she's one of them. He imagines her getting the call, finding out that her brother's died, again. Experiencing the grief of it, again. He thinks of the rabid he buried with Tony, and how no call has been made. No family told. No news delivered. They might never find out.

"Why did Warren do this to you? Lock you up, bring me here to... He could have just let you go."

"Doesn't really strike me as the kind of man to do that."

"But he's done it before. There have been others who have gone around..." Ste gestures with his hands, points to his face again.

"Naked?" The rotter suggests, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah... that... and Warren hasn't done this."

The rotter looks away from him, towards the direction of the boarded up windows.

"What did you do to him?"

The rotter hums, shows that he's still listening, but he doesn't turn to face Ste.

"You must have done something, if he's got you locked up here."

"Ever consider that your man's just a bastard?"

Ste's considered that more times than he can count.

"He's not my _man_ , alright?"

The rotter turns to face him then, eyes piercing, the colour of them indistinguishable. One moment Ste thinks they're yellow, the next black, the next a blue that he guesses is closest to the rotter's original eye colour. It's like a magic trick, the sort of thing which Warren has warned them all about: _They're not normal. Don't trust them. They're not like us._

"Out of everything I've said, that's what you pick up on?"

Ste realises with a jolt that he's made the rotter angry.

"I'm just saying... he's not like... the boss of me."

"Really?" The rotter's pressed up against the bars of the cage, as close as it's possible to be without tearing itself out of it. The suit it's wearing looks brand new, clean and fitted like a glove, but its hands have that dirt speckled look that Ste's seen on all of the undead, rings of black around its fingernails.

The rotter sees him looking, glancing down at where Ste's focused. Ste half expects the rotter to hastily hide its hands - it wouldn't be the first time, they all seem to be ashamed of it - but it holds Ste's gaze. _Black_. Its eyes look black now.

The rotter continues like nothing's happened.

"If he's not the boss of you, then let me go."

"I can't."

"You've got the key, haven't you?" The rotter looks towards the windowsill. Its voice is low now, coaxing. "You could tell him I broke out, overpowered you. It wouldn't exactly be a shock." Its eyes roam over Ste's body then up again. Every time the rotter does it, Ste feels like he's being x-rayed.

"What?" He stares down at himself, expects to find something out of place. Then it dawns on him. "Are you saying I'm scrawny?"

The rotter shakes its head. "No, no. Not at all. I'm sure Fox would believe you breaking into this cage, holding me down, killing me."

"Maybe he would." Ste crosses his arms, tries to pretend that this isn't exactly what he'd been planning to do. The rotter's right - no one would buy it. He can barely take on someone his own size, let alone someone who looks like the rotter does; broad arms underneath its suit jacket, tight shirt emphasising its defined stomach muscles. Ste may have a gun, but the rotter isn't naive. Ste can see it following his every movement, and when it isn't concentrating on him its eyes are darting back and forth to the key that would secure its freedom.

"You can stop looking at that and all."

The rotter locks eyes with him.

"I know how this goes. I let you out, you eat my brains."

That earns him a small laugh.

"Eat your brains?" The rotter says, slowly and disbelievingly. "You really don't know much about us, do you?"

"That's what you do, isn't it? Go around cutting people open, feasting on their... insides." He's aware of how much of an amateur he is. He sounds like a kid trying to prove that he's right, that he's the one in the know.

Again, a laugh. Low and like it's rumbling from the rotter's chest.

"It's a bit more complicated than that, but... sure. If you want to believe that." Ste must look nervous, because the rotter adds, "Don't worry, kid. I'm not about to eat your brains. Doesn't look like you have any, so. You're safe with me."

"Oi!" Ste would give the rotter a shove if it wasn't behind bars. He settles for scowling instead. He's seriously considering killing the thing just to get it to shut up. "You can't just talk to me like that, you know."

"Says who?"

"Says... says the fact that I have a gun and you don't." Ste holds it up, dangling it in front of the rotter's face like he's been told to offer proof.

The rotter does a faux shocked face, eyes wide, mouth gaping.

"Scary." It puts its hands in the air in a show of defense.

Ste lowers his gun, puts it back in his pocket. He drags the chair that's in the corner of the room to the cage, sits in it, tucks his feet under his knees.

"I don't know what to do." He doesn't mean to say it out loud.

"What's your name, boy?"

He shouldn't answer. He shouldn't be having any further contact; shouldn't have had any contact at all to begin with.

Maybe he answers because it's easier, and because he doesn't think he has anything to lose.

"Ste."

There's a pause.

"Ste?" The rotter repeats, and something in the way it says it makes Ste look up.

"Yeah." He feels defensive, doesn't know why. "Ste."

The rotter gives a slight shake of his head, a _that won't do at all_ movement.

"What's your last name, Steven?"

" _Ste_." He raises his voice, feels like he's playing a cat and mouse game.

"Steven Ste? Weird name."

"No, _Ste_. Ste's my first name. Not Steven."

"Ste isn't a name. It's a three letter word that makes no sense to me. You were named Steven, weren't you?"

"Yeah, but -"

"Steven, what's your last name?"

"Why does it matter?" He's distinctly irritated now. His legs move towards the bars of the cage, his feet kicking against them. He knows it's risky; the rotter could grab hold of him at any point, could pull him forward and attack him. But he can't stop himself.

"If you're going to kill me, I want to know who you are."

"Why? What difference does it make? You think you're going to heaven, going to float on a fluffy cloud and remember all about me?"

"Oh no, I'm going to hell. I'd just like to plan my revenge for when I'm there." The rotter gives him a smile, leaves Ste not knowing whether it's being serious or not. "Come on. Tell me."

"It's Hay. Ste Hay."

"Steven Hay." The rotter sounds it out, rolls it off his tongue like he's considering it. He gives a brief nod like he's decided he approves. "Don't you want to know mine?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Because if I'm going to kill you, I don't want to know who you are." Even as he says it, the extent of what he's going to do - what he's _saying_ he's going to do - hits him with its impact, the ripple effect it could have. He'd be going home to Amy as a killer. He'd be tucking his children into bed as a killer. Kissing them all goodnight, knowing what he's done. Killing a rabid is one thing. But killing someone who he's had a conversation with, however brief - someone who he knows the name of, someone who he's seen laugh, who's talked about their sister, who's shown that they have a personality, suggesting that there's a _person_ in there somewhere - he doesn't know if he's strong enough.

"Brendan Brady."

Ste closes his eyes, braces himself for the inevitable effect of the rotter's words, and it comes like a tide washing over him: guilt. Ugly and raw and chasing him.

Ste hates the rotter, hates this _Brendan_.

"You shouldn't have said that."

"I know."

"You've... you've made me feel..."

"I know." There's a hint of satisfaction there. Brendan had planned this. The rotter had wanted him to feel this, wanted to make this decision an even more impossible one.

Ste kicks at the cage, harder now, frustration clawing at him. He swears, let's it echo around the room, _fuck, fuck, fuck_ ; rakes his hands through his hair, gasps out a breath.

He's doing everything that Warren's always warned him against. Every rule in the book, he's breaking. _Don't show weakness. Don't let the human you are interfere with the machine you need to be. Kill them before anything slips through the cracks, before they can think that they've got the upper hand._

He's falling apart and the rotter's witnessing it all.

"Just... just tell me what I'm supposed to do."

He's reached a new low: asking for the rotter's help.

 _Pull yourself together._

"Right. Right." Ste takes a steady breath, lifts himself up from his seat and puts distance between himself and the cage. It works immediately. He feels like he can focus a little better now, like a spell had washed over him when he'd been near the rotter.

"I'm going to have to hurt you." As he says it he realises the truth of it. There's no other option. He knows Warren wants to return to find the rotter dead on the floor, heart ripped out of it, but he would settle, Ste believes - he _needs_ to believe - for the rotter to be hurt. Badly hurt.

"Okay," Brendan says. Again, that same lack of emotion that makes all the hairs on Ste's arms stand on end. Are they all like this, dead inside as well as in all the ways that matter? Or is he not seen as a worthy opponent, as someone who can do any harm?

"You got a girlfriend, Steven?"

The question comes completely out of the blue. Ste blinks, dumbfounded, wondering if he's heard Brendan correctly.

"A girlfriend?"

"Yeah, you know, one of those things that nags a lot?"

"I... no, I... there's Amy." It slips out before he can make it right. Before he can say _we broke up ages ago but she's my best friend_ , or pass her off as no one.

 _Never mention anyone important to rotters._ Another one of Warren's rules.

"Amy?" The rotter suddenly appears interested, that dull tone leaving him.

"She's... no one, she's..."

Brendan isn't buying this.

"I live with her." It seems the least dangerous thing to say.

The rotter nods, seems to be considering this.

"Amy..."

Ste shudders at the sound of her name coming from the rotter's mouth. Brendan's voice has a smooth quality to it that makes everything sound like a threat.

"She young, pretty?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" He can't help but picture Amy at that moment; whip-thin, pale complexion, her blond hair falling over her face. He's known her since she was a teenager, when they were both barely more than kids.

"Skinny like you, is she? Delicate?" The rotter sounds out the word: _del-i-cate._

"What are you getting at?" Ste can't help himself; he instinctively moves nearer to the cage, wishes for the first time that there weren't bars separating them.

"Nothing." Brendan shrugs, but Ste doesn't believe his nonchalance. It looks too staged to be casual, like he's a man - a _thing_ \- who knows exactly what it's doing.

"Are you threatening her?" He can't shake the feeling that that's exactly what Brendan's doing. He edges closer, primed with tension and a growing anger.

"No." Brendan sounds mock outraged. "'Course not."

"Cos if you are, I'd..."

"You'd what?"

"I'd kill you. I'd do it, I swear."

"You've never met my sister." It's another abrupt change of subject that startles Ste. He doesn't know whether to speak, isn't sure if he's being asked a question. But the rotter stares at him, and in the end he settles for a curt _no_. "God knows I love her, but she's a talker. Loves gossiping. Loves finding out what's going on, and telling people."

Ste has no idea where this is headed.

"She finds out I'm dead, and she'll... well, she'll be devastated." The rotter stops, looks genuinely unsettled for a moment, and Ste wonders whether it's thinking about its death, about when its sister first found out.

The moment passes and the rotter forges ahead, has got the control back in its voice.

"She wouldn't just give up, Steven. I'm not just anybody. I'm not someone you forget. I'm not going to just disappear. She loves me, see." There's a note of amazement in Brendan's voice, like her love is barely capable of being believed or trusted. "She'll hunt around, find out what's happened."

"So what if she does?" Ste's mind is churning, like he's trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. Brendan's right. It's not a rabid he's dealing with here, chaotic and dangerous, something that he can easily make excuses about: _I had to kill it, it was a threat to everyone_. Brendan may have broken the rules, but not wearing contacts and cover up mousse isn't enough to warrant punishment by death. Warren's making this up as he goes along, thinking that he can pass laws, can decide who deserves what without consequence.

"She's going to find out. You think people will stand for that? There are people who stick up for us, you know. People who are on our side."

Ste's seen them, has has visits from them. They come every couple of months, setting up displays and meetings and talks in the town centre, renting out a hall for the day. _Partially deceased rights_. They ban the word _rotter_ or _rabid_ or _the undead_. They speak in gentle, soothing tones that remind Ste of a automated computer voice, a robot. They're all about _caring_ and _nurturing_ and _spreading awareness_. They have their breaking points though: during the last visit Darren had egged them under Warrens's instructions, and they'd left humiliated. A juvenile prank, but an effective one.

"And if I don't kill you..."

"Then I pay a little visit to the lovely Amy."

"You said this wasn't a threat."

"I lied."

Ste leans against the wall, defeated.

"So either way I lose."

"Pretty much, yeah. Don't take it personally, kid."

"I'm not a kid." He's speaking through gritted teeth, temper frayed. "How many more times?"

"Then why don't you come into this cage?"

"That's exactly what you want, isn't it? Get me in a corner, batter me, eat my flesh."

"So first it's brains and now it's flesh."

"It's both." He's shouting now, pointing accusingly. "I know all about you and your kind."

"Me and my kind? Wow." The rotter huffs a laugh, mutters inaudibly under his breath, laughs again. "Wow, that's... Unlock the door, Steven."

"Fine." Once he says it, it feels like he can't back down. He has to see this through. "Fine." He grabs the key, balls it in his palm, fists tight and clenched. He hurriedly unlocks the door, knows that he's being reckless and stupid and inviting his own death. He's going to open the door and the rotter's going to snap his neck, or suffocate him or press him up against the bars and beat him until Ste can feel himself slipping away. It won't matter that the room is locked; the rotter will find a way to escape, maybe through breaking the window or kicking the door down. Warren will find him in a pool of his own blood, and his kids and Amy will know that he died a coward.

But when Ste opens the door, none of those things happen.

He'd acted on adrenaline but now that's gone, replaced by fear. He's the closest he's been to Brendan, and the rotter's eyes look more strange from up close, more so entirely unlike his own. Its moustache is dark and pronounced, especially when contrasted with the lack of colour in its skin. Ste's stood opposite in a pair of worn jeans and a jumper that's at least a size too big, the rotter's suit still immaculate. He feels dwarfed by the sheer size of the animal, by its strength and how _male_ it is.

The rotter leans in and sniffs him. Ste wonders whether he's made a mistake - that thing can't have _sniffed_ him - but then it happens again.

Ste leans back, alarmed. Confused.

"Go on then. Hurt me." The rotter spreads its arms out: _I'm all yours._

Ste takes hold of his gun, has a panicked second where he thinks that it's gone, that the rotter's stolen it. He holds it securely, more so than ever before. He can feel perspiration transferring from his hand to the gun, hopes that Brendan doesn't notice.

He won't kill the rotter - not now, not yet - but he feels safer armed, feels some semblance of comfort holding the weapon.

His hand comes out, ready to hit the rotter, aimed squarely at its left eye.

He's grabbed before he can make an impact. Arms are wrapped around his waist, and he's being pushed forward, roughly pressed against the bars. His stomach is digging into them, firmly enough to hurt. He cries out from shock more than pain.

He's wriggling and protesting, almost screaming now. _Let me go. Let me go, you bastard._

He should have killed the rotter when he had the chance.

He can't get out of Brendan's hold. The rotter's clamped its hands over Ste's wrists, has them secured behind his back. Ste tries to move, uses all his strength to untangle himself; tries to kick the rotter, attempts to get his gun that he'd pushed into his pocket when Brendan had struck, but it's a losing battle. He's trapped.

He's going to die.

Brendan's speaking into his ear now.

"I think I'll take this."

Ste feels a hand in his pocket, sees his gun being pulled out.

"Very kind of you, Steven. You shouldn't have."

"I fucking hate you." He spits it, gets flecks of saliva on the bars of the cage.

"None of that. There's no need to be rude. Manners, Steven, manners. Now, what to do..." The rotter hums, still has Ste in a vice like grip. "Shall I play with my new toy, or shall I leave you all locked up?"

"It's not a toy. It's fucking loaded."

"Who said I was talking about the gun?"

Brendan presses it against Ste's back with his free hand, let's Ste feel the hard material making its mark on him.

"Or, option number three - and please, tell me what you think of this - I could do what you think me and _my kind_ are so good at, and eat your brains. Or is it flesh? Or both?"

Ste screams louder, struggles harder, gets restrained even more.

"You don't sound like you're liking that idea much, boy."

"Please, just... I've got kids." He's desperate, doesn't care that he's divulging personal information any more. He'll say whatever it takes, whatever will let him stay alive. "Two of them." His words rush in on each other, and he prays that he's making some sense. "They're only little. They're just babies, they're... they need me. They need a dad, and if you rob them of that..."

He doesn't have a threat, doesn't have a comeback. He trails off miserably, unsure if his words are anything more meaningful than letters stringed together.

"Bit young to be having kids, aren't you?"

"I told you, I'm -"

"Not a kid, I know. Still, I was... I mean, I wasn't exactly..." Brendan clears his throat, looks away. "Doesn't matter."

"No, come on. Tell me." Ste doesn't know whether he's genuinely curious or if he wants to prolong this, bide his time.

"That's a story for another day. If I don't eat you."

Ste laughs, does it to disguise how terrified he is. He doesn't know about Brendan's past, but he can imagine that he was a man who hurt people long before he became a monster.

"Please." He's pleading with a heightened sense of urgency now. His options seen more limited than before; either he's killed or Warren comes back to find he's been defeated, captured by the rotter. He can already feel the humiliation, the way that Warren would share the story with glee.

"Please what?" Brendan's face is close to his, hands still secured around Ste's own. The rotter seems to be enjoying this. Enjoying seeing Ste beg.

"I'll save you."

There's silence, then the sound of spluttering.

"You'll save me?" Brendan sounds insulted by the idea. "I don't think you're in any position to say something like that, do you?" The rotter tightens its hold on Ste, a reminder of who has the power.

"You know that Warren will find you if you kill me. They all will."

"You think I'm scared of Warren?"

"I know you don't want to die. Probably sick of it by now, aren't you? You've done it enough."

Ste's sure he hears _cheeky little..._ being muttered under Brendan's breath.

"Point," Brendan says, louder now.

"I'll make sure Warren lets you walk out of this room."

"Walk or crawl?"

"Walk," Ste says firmly.

"How do I know you won't just use that gun of yours and kill me instantly?"

"You'll just have to trust me."

"Trust you? I don't even know you."

"You know my name. You know I've got two kids. You know the name of their mother. You've got your hands on me. I'd say that's all you need to know, wouldn't you?"

"Not even close." But Brendan relents; loosens his hands, gives Ste some space.

"You can go back to that sister of yours too," Ste continues, knows that it's the thing to tap into, the only decipherable weak spot. "She'll want you to return safe, won't she? And not to hurt anyone."

It's guesswork now. He has no idea what Brendan's sister is like. She could be as crazy as he is. Could be as aggressive and terrifying.

But something in Brendan's reaction tells him she's not. That he's hit close to home. _Poor girl,_ he thinks. _Having a rotter like this as a brother._ At least Amy's sister follows the rules. She wears the lenses, puts as many layers of mousse on that she can manage before it starts to look like it'll melt off her face. As far as Ste can tell, she's the same as when she was alive.

"I don't believe a word you're saying." The rotter seems to be talking more to itself than to Ste.

"Trust me," Ste repeats, puts everything he has into those two words, dares Brendan to believe them.

His hands are free.

Ste stares at them in amazement, shocked that the rotter's let him go, shocked that he's still intact. His hands are red and they ache with a dull pressure, and when he lifts his t-shirt to check, there are marks from where the bars made contact with his stomach. He sees Brendan looking and pulls down the material, covering himself.

"Gun?" He asks, eyes focused on Brendan's hand holding it.

The hesitation seems to last forever. Then, slowly, Brendan passes it over.

Ste could shoot the rotter now. Could kill it and end this. Nothing's stopping him. Even if Brendan's sister makes a fuss, there's no strong council to fight her case. Brendan's right - there might be some publicity, and some uproar if people were to find out about rotters being killed. But it wouldn't take over. Chances are it would be forgotten about in a few months time. There are more people who would condone it than condemn.

Ste stows his gun away in his back pocket. He's missed his chance, and it doesn't feel like something he can get back.

 _What now?_ He can see Brendan thinking it too, looking around the room, looking at the clock.

"Maybe we should get out of this thing."

Brendan nods and they step out of the cage, both of them trying to leave together so they end up stuck there, colliding.

Ste makes more of a fuss than he needs to; swears and shoves Brendan, gets shoved back, then reluctantly let's Brendan step outside first.

"You're a proper pain in the arse, you know that?" Ste shakes out his hands, tries to shake the pain away with it. He knows his wrists will be aching for days. He's easily bruised. Sometimes it feels like his skin's as thin and as delicate as paper.

"Lucky for you, you'll never have to see me again after today."

"Planning on moving out of the country, are you?" Ste knows that can't be it. He's rarely that lucky. Here for good, Brendan had said.

"I'll keep my head down," Brendan says, voice sharp. "I only came here for my sister. I'm not interested in..." Brendan gestures with his hands, seems disgruntled when Ste doesn't provide him with an answer. "You," he settles for. "I'm not interested in you."

Ste grunts. "Well I'm not interested in you either."

"Right. Good."

"Good," Ste echoes, had felt less uncomfortable inside the cage. "So... stay away." It doesn't sound quite as threatening as he'd intended. He sounds like a sulky sixteen year old trying to ward off the school bully.

"I will." The rotter flattens its suit down, dusting it off, although there's no need; there's nothing out of place, nothing to suggest that Ste had attempted to do any damage at all.

"And if I find out that you've been after Amy, or my kids -"

"Relax, Steven. I have no interest in them. You don't come after me, and I won't come after them."

"Deal." Ste wonders whether they're meant to be shaking on it, but he decides it's better not to be doing concrete deals with the devil.

The rotter sits down, leaning back in the chair. It looks so casual that it infuriates Ste. Does none of this faze it?

Brendan sees him pacing.

"Sit down, won't you? Fuck, you're making me antsy."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The sarcasm must be lost on the rotter, because Brendan says, "that's alright, Steven," and looks oddly satisfied, like another battle's been won.

Bastard.

Ste sits, making sure that their chairs don't touch.

"So what now? We just wait until Warren comes back and bails us out?"

"You sure he hasn't left the key in here?"

"'Course he hasn't. He's an idiot but even he's not that stupid. He knows I'd just escape if he did that." Brendan stares at him. "What?"

"Escape. Who's the monster here?"

"Shut up."

They say nothing for a few moments. Ste thinks he could last like this until Warren returns, but Brendan's the first to break it.

"We stay here until Fox comes back. You feed him your story, whatever you have to say to make him listen. Then we go our separate ways, never see each other again."

"Suits me."

This time, Brendan wants him to shake on it. The rotter holds its hand out. There's dark hair covering its arms, almost as dark as the hair above its upper lip.

Brendan waits. Ste does nothing.

"Do I have your word?" Brendan's not looking away.

Ste sighs, rolls his eyes, does everything he can to look put out. Then, when he's made the message clear, he relents and takes Brendan's hand. It's cold at first; that he'd expected. He's heard the tales. But he's never heard about the way it warms up, like he's bringing the rotter back to life. Like in his nightmares where everything is a strange, confusing combination of sensations.

The skin on Brendan's hands is soft, not rough like he thought it would be. They shake on it, must only last for a moment, and then draw apart.

The last time he'll ever touch Brendan Brady.


	3. Chapter 3

He jumps when he hears the sound of a key in the lock. He rises from his seat, looks at the rotter to do the same, but it remains as it is. It doesn't seem to share the fear that Ste does; it looks mildly entertained, like it's anticipating what's going to happen next.

Warren strolls in, so casually that Ste feels a surge of anger towards him. He's been here for the past hour trying to decide whether to kill the rotter - _he's_ nearly been killed - and Warren looks like he's just had a pint down the pub, reveling in Ste's panic.

Warren stops, looks between Ste and Brendan, eyes scanning Brendan's body, checking for marks, for any evidence of what Ste's done. Ste tries to cover his own hands; it would be a humiliating defeat for Warren to notice that he's the only one who's been hurt in this exchange.

"Did you do anything to him?" His voice is raised, his mouth open. He's turned a deep shade of red.

"Warren, right..." Ste had planned this conversation while he sat in silence with the rotter, waiting for the hour to be up. But now his words feel caught in his throat, and the more Warren stares at him, waiting for answers, the more he stumbles.

"Did you touch him?"

"No, but -"

Before Ste can make a move to stop him, Warren has his hands on his shoulders and he's throwing him against the wall, slamming his back into it. Ste let's out a yelp, and then a further groan of pain as he feels the sensation reach the whole of his body, making him double up. But he doesn't have time to recover. Warren pulls him up, and his fury shows no sign of having subsided. Ste closes his eyes, waits for the punch.

There's a noise, a sound of a scuffle. Grunts and expletives. Ste opens one eye, squinting through it, is afraid to see. Warren must have overpowered the rotter, must have decided to kill it first, deal with Ste one to one.

He takes in the sight before him. Slowly he opens his other eye, looks properly now, breath rattling in his throat, heart beating violently in his chest. Warren's on the floor, the rotter's hand pressed on his stomach to hold him down, its other hand held in mid air like it's about to strike out.

"What are you..." Ste says, gets no reply. He isn't sure either of them have heard him at all. For a moment he wonders what it would be like if he let it happen, if he stood there and let the rotter kill Warren. Maybe life would be better if -

He prises himself away from the wall. He can barely feel the earlier soreness of his wrists and his stomach from where Brendan had held him and pressed him against the bars. Everything feels focused on his back and his shoulders where Warren's fingernails had dug into him.

"Oi. _Oi_."

Warren's staring up at him - Ste's the only saviour he's got right now - but all of Brendan's attention is directed towards Warren. Ste clicks his fingers in front of the rotter's face. Still that does nothing. He stands closer to it, gets within its line of sight.

"You've got to stop this." The Volunteer Force wouldn't recover from Warren dying. It would disband, and then where would Ste be? He'd have no job, no money.

Still nothing. No sign that the rotter's heard or considered him.

Ste hesitates, reaches out a hand. Tentatively he places it on the rotter's shoulder, murmurs _Brendan_. It flinches, looking at Ste and then at his hand like it's been burned. Ste wonders whether he's made a mistake, one that'll cost him. He's about to withdraw his hand, hopes that the effects of his boldness aren't irreversible.

Then Brendan speaks.

"Why should I stop?" The rotter sounds genuinely curious, like it can't understand why it would be a bad idea to continue.

"Think about it." Ste raises his eyebrows, tries to communicate through one look everything they've talked about while Warren was away. About their deal. About consequences. Ste tries not to show his scepticism; he's not sure a rotter is capable of making negotiations and sticking to them.

Brendan still has a hand firmly holding Warren down. Warren's eyes shift from Ste to Brendan, and there's a bewilderment there that Ste has rarely seen. It's unusual - unheard of, even - for Warren to show that kind of weakness.

"He was gonna..." Brendan doesn't finish.

"Get away from him. Come on, get away. You know this isn't right." He's saying the words, but he's not entirely sure that he's being truthful. This _is_ what rotters are meant to do. Destruct. Wound. It's their instinct.

Brendan seems to be thinking the same, staring at Warren like killing him would be a choice that isn't so hard.

He steps away. It's the slightest movement, scarcely a step at all, but it's something.

"Warren, let's talk outside," Ste says, tries to possess the authority that he isn't sure he currently has. He knows he won't be able to reason with Warren here, not in front of Brendan.

Perhaps being alone with Ste seems to be the better alternative, because Warren stands hastily, shuffles to Ste's side. Ste tracks his body, but he doesn't appear to be carrying his gun. He must have been sure that Ste would have the upper hand. He doesn't know whether he's meant to feel flattered.

Ste looks at Brendan: _Stay here. Don't you fucking dare move. Remember everything we talked about._

He closes the door behind them, gasping when Warren flattens him against the wall outside the room, his hand secured around Ste's mouth so he won't be heard. He only takes it away when Ste stops struggling.

"Warren, I -"

"You better have a good excuse." He's bent over, slightly hunched like he's been injured. He still manages to sound like he's snarling.

"We can't kill it, can we?"

"It? Don't you mean _Brendan_?" Warren says, voice twisting around the name in what Ste thinks is meant to be an impression of him.

Ste ignores him.

"Think about it, yeah? The rotter told me it's visiting its sister."

"So?"

"So - this isn't just someone who has nothing, nobody. What if she starts trying to find out what happened? Does some digging around."

"Who cares if she does? She can't prove anything."

"Did anyone see you with the rotter in the village?"

Warren stops, catching on to where this is going.

"You think someone would grass me up?"

Ste almost regrets saying anything. He wouldn't put it past Warren to seek out every person who saw them together, forcing them to stay quiet.

"I'm just saying it's a possibility. Even if we hurt the rotter, his sister could still -"

"She's a woman, Ste. What's she going to do, give me a talking to?" Warren laughs like he's imagining the possibility.

"But if other people find out..."

For a moment Ste thinks Warren's going to hit him. There's a thump, and a cry of exasperation as his hand hits the wall just shy of Ste's head.

"Fuck sake."

"We could just let it go," Ste says softly, watching as Warren turns on him, incredulous.

"After that stunt it just pulled?" He doesn't seem to want to spell out the details. Perhaps it would be too humiliating for him: _a rotter held me down on the floor and I couldn't even fight back. Not even a little bit._

"Forget about it. That thing in there - it's not worth it."

"Really? Because you seemed pretty friendly with it."

"I was doing it for us, okay? For you and the HVF. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be left alone with that thing? I should be mad at you, locking the door like that. What if something had gone wrong with my gun, and..." Ste deliberately trails off, letting Warren go there himself. A flicker of guilt passes across his face, but it's so fleeting that Ste wonders if he's mistaken it, if it's something else entirely.

Ste's sure that Warren's going to argue with him, but his exhaustion must win through; he looks drained, pale, like his interaction with the rotter has taken the fight out of him.

"Get rid of it. Tell it that if it ever goes out like that again then there won't be a second chance."

Ste already knows the warning's useless. What was it that the rotter had said to him? _Do I look like I wear make up?_

"I'll tell him. You go back to the others. I've got this." He braces himself outside the door; he has no idea what kind of mood the rotter will be in.

"And Ste?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't think that this is the last of it. I'm going to find a way for you to kill that bastard."

::::::

Brendan's standing by the window when Ste enters the room, back turned away from him. The rotter's looking out like there's something to see; some crack of light coming through, some resemblance of scenic surroundings instead of the boarded up slabs of wood that stop anything from getting in and out.

Ste doesn't know how to begin. _Hi_ seems too casual, _excuse me_ politeness beyond what the rotter deserves.

"You can go, so..."

The rotter doesn't do anything to imply it's heard him.

Ste raises his voice, any trace of patience gone now.

"Get out of here. Before Warren comes back and changes his mind."

Brendan faces him, eyes roaming from head to toe.

"What?" Ste says. There's that unnerving x-ray sensation again.

Again Brendan stays silent. Again that look.

The rotter's checking, Ste realises with a jolt of understanding. It's checking that Warren hasn't hurt him.

"Nothing." Brendan walks over to the corner of the room. For the first time Ste notices that there's a coat there. It's on the floor, crumpled as though it's been carelessly thrown to the side. The rotter picks it up, mutters as it looks at the layer of dust that's gathered on the material. The coat must have fallen when Warren had dragged Brendan here; perhaps there had been a scuffle and he'd forced it off. It's large and black, with fur lining its collar. When the rotter's satisfied with its inspection it shrugs it on. Dressed entirely in black, stubble framing its face, it looks terrifying and more otherworldly than before.

Ste should let Brendan go. He bites on his upper lip - is half inclined to bite down on his tongue if it'll stop him from speaking - but it's as though he suddenly has no control, and the words tumble out one by one.

"If I were you I'd keep your head down."

The rotter's eyes are fixed on him. Ste's never looked at one for this long without the contacts before.

"Is that a threat?" Brendan doesn't sound scared or disgusted by it. He almost sounds disappointed.

Ste shakes his head. "No, it's... look, it's a warming. Not from me, I'm not... Warren's not just going to give up. I don't know exactly what happened between you two, but he's got it in for you now. Stay away."

"I'm here to see my sister, Steven. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know, I didn't mean...I don't mean you have to hide."

"Really? I thought that's what you wanted me and my kind to do." Brendan steps closer, a ghost of a breath across Ste's face. "Shy away in the shadows. Avoid daylight, like we're some kind of... Like we're something to be ashamed of. That's what you want, isn't it?"

 _Yes_ , Ste thinks. _Yes, that's what I've always thought. What I've always wanted._

"I don't..."

He shouldn't have said anything. The rotter was ready to leave, and now he's fucked things up.

"Why did you do that?"

"What?"

"Stop Warren from what he was going to do. Why did you save me?" Deflection; if the rotter's talking, then he doesn't have to answer any questions he doesn't know the answer to.

"I didn't save you. I saved myself. If Fox had killed you then I'd be next."

"He wouldn't have... He wasn't going to..."

The rotter tilts its head to the side, gives Ste a look.

"Really, boy? _Really_?"

"You shouldn't have done that. I could have stopped him myself."

"Just thank me and get this over with."

"Thank you?" Ste's open mouthed. "If you think that this means that I owe you something -"

"Oh for fuck's sake." The rotter heads towards the door, has its hand on it, pulls it open with enough force that it swings back on its hinges. "You're hard work, you know that?"

The rotter's out of the room before Ste can stop it, call it back. Ste watches its footsteps down the hall and the crash of the door as it leaves the treatment centre.

When Ste looks back at the cage, it seems impossible that such a thing could ever have been contained in it.

::::::

It's late in the evening when he gets home, going on ten. He knows the kids will be asleep, and he's careful to be quiet with his key in the lock. He hangs up his jacket, clears the mud off his shoes - they've been careful so far with this carpet, him and Amy - and he's about to forgo a shower and jump straight into bed when the door opens.

Amy's bleary eyed with sleep.

"Did I wake you?"

"I must have nodded off. I only meant to lie down for a second." She looks like a child. With her make up free face she could pass for the girl Ste first met all those years ago.

"Want a drink?"

"Just some water thanks."

He runs the tap. He's about to stick his mouth underneath the faucet and drink from there, but Amy tuts and places two glasses on the surface.

They drink in silence. It feels good to be home, the familiarity and comfort of it. He knows how things work here; the routine, the day to day tasks that need doing. It's only when he leans against the table top that he realises that he's forgot to put his gun away for the night. It digs into his skin.

"Do you want me to...?" Ste brings the gun out of his pocket, hopes that Amy can see the apology in his eyes.

She takes it from him, puts it in the other room, and he pictures her pushing it to the back of the shelf out of sight.

When she comes back he waits for her to say something, to start on him. She stands beside him again, gives him a small smile.

"You okay?"

"Didn't think you'd be asking me that after... you know, the gun."

"You look..."

"What?" How does he look?

"I don't know, just..."

She startles him, puts her arms around him. The sudden strength of them makes him step back, but he secures his hold on her, kidding himself that he can support them both.

"I don't want to do this anymore." It's an admission that he's never made before, but it doesn't seem to shock her; does she know how he's been feeling all this time, all these nights when he's been patrolling and planning with the other members and wanting nothing more than to be at home, to find a job that doesn't make him feel like he's screaming inside?

"I know. I know." She's stroking the back of his head, and he's not quite sobbing onto her shoulder, but he's getting close.

"I can't... there's no way out, Ames."

"We'll find a way."

He shakes his head. He already knows.

"There's nothing. I told you, Warren will find some way to make me pay. To make _us_ pay. I could handle it if it was just me, but if it's you and the kids, and your dad and Sarah -"

"You really think he'd hurt her?" She knows too; those large eyes of hers fill with fear like she's desperately begging for him to tell her that _no, no he wouldn't. Everything's going to be alright._

"You don't know him like I do." He's got the bruises to prove it, and when Amy's hand rubs at his back he winces. They're still tender, the marks from both Warren and Brendan.

"What can I do? There must be something I can do to help."

He could laugh at her. He could laugh at her for thinking that there's something that any of them could do.

"Be here."

She frowns at him.

"Just be here. Don't leave me."

"Why would I leave you?"

"If you... if you find someone, and... Ames, I want you to find someone, I really do. But..." It's another previously unspoken fear, something that torments him in the dark nights when sleep evades him. It plays out like a flickering movie in his head: Amy seeing someone and things getting serious, and her moving out, taking the kids with her. He imagines the time between each visit growing longer and longer, until the kids forget him completely. Until they start calling someone else daddy.

"Ste. Ste, listen to me." She has to pull back, hold his face in her hands, because he's fidgeting in her arms, restless, his fear escalating now that he's said it out loud. " _Listen_. Even if that day comes, I'm not leaving you, okay? The kids will still see you everyday. I promise you."

Ste nods, tries to make the words sink in, but the promise of everyday feels impossible.

"I'm sorry." He composes himself. He's a fucking _mess_. He untangles himself from her, gives her a shaky smile. "I'm going to bed." He puts his glass in the sink. It can wait until morning. Everything can.

"Ste?"

Her voice makes him turn.

"What happened today?"

She thinks she wants the truth, but he wonders how she would cope with it if she knew. If she found out that Warren had wanted him to kill a rotter in its treated state. She'd think about Sarah, he knows she would.

He gives the reply that he always gives whenever she asks him that question.

"Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

::::::

He puts on his computer after he's got changed for bed. He means to only spend five, ten minutes at the most online, but he ends up going through his usual routine - checks his emails, sees how far he's gone into his overdraft this month, then shops online for a bit, tries to think of ideas for Lucas's birthday coming up. Both him and Leah are at the age where they're unfussy about presents, but he doesn't want to just get him anything; he needs to choose something personal, something that only he could think of.

After he's done everything he needs to, there's one last thing. Making sure his bedroom door's firmly closed first, he goes onto the dating website.

He must have forgotten to switch his settings back. When he clicks _my matches_ there are at least a dozen men on the screen. Some of the pictures are harmless, nothing more than a standard profile picture, but others are more provocative; some of the men are shirtless, taking pictures in front of a mirror, the flash of the camera bright.

He's also received messages since the last time he checked. One from a girl, a pretty brunette his age who doesn't live too far from here. Two more from men, one of who is direct in a way that shocks Ste: _You free sometime this week to meet up? I can give you my address._

Ste checks his profile. He's thirty, with light blonde hair. Most of his pictures seem to be centred around his body: a photo of him at the gym, shirtless. A photo of him at the beach, shirtless. A photo of him in his bedroom, shirtless. There are also several shots of him carrying what looks like a protein shake. Ste imagines the two of them in a restaurant, Ste with a loaded plate in front of him, and Mr Abs - shirtless - with his flask full of his liquid diet.

"Fucking hell."

Deleted.

The third message is from a man called Noah. Brown eyes, a gym instructor. Ste groans, but the pictures are more promising; there's no protein shake in sight, and he's smiling and surrounded by friends in most of them.

 _Hey. How are you?_

A standard first message, but at least it's one that doesn't make Ste want to immediately erase it.

He clicks on the reply button, then clicks away. He goes instead to the folder where he'd saved the page. He'd been reluctant to bookmark it in case Amy needed to use his computer and saw it, and he has it saved as something inconspicuous here: _list_. It could mean anything.

He'd saved it because otherwise he'd never have been able to find the page again. He'd been almost sure that he wouldn't need to, but there was that chance, however slim, that he might want to see it again.

Callum's profile.

He's put up a new picture since the last time Ste checked. It's better quality than the others, and the light is flattering, almost like he's in soft focus.

Ste shifts in his seat, mouse hovering over the screen.

 _Reply_.

He could start small. Just something simple. Strike up a conversation if he gets a reply, see where things go from there. It doesn't have to be anything serious. He doesn't have to be dramatic about this, make it into something it's not. Maybe they could just be mates. There's got to be people who go on this site just because they're lonely, just because they want to meet someone. _Someone_ doesn't have to be sex. _Someone_ doesn't have to be love.

He thought he felt something once, but how does he know for sure? How does he know it wasn't just that time, never to be repeated? With Justin there had been a moment. It was tiny, shouldn't have even registered in his mind, but he felt it.

They'd been at Justin's house. His mum and sisters were all out, and he and Ste had camped in front of the television, playing Xbox games and eating takeaway pizza, downing beer Justin had stashed away in his room from a house party weeks ago.

It had been winter, and they'd got cold. Justin had grabbed his duvet from upstairs and they'd spread themselves out on the sofa, feet poking out over the edge.

Ste had been winning the game; he remembers because the memory of Justin's irritation is still clear in his mind, a source of amusement to him back then. He'd tried to beat him, but when that didn't work he resorted to dirty tactics, trying to wrangle the control off of Ste. They'd fought, pillows flying everywhere as Ste had tried to remain focused on the game, but then Justin was on top of him, hands grabbing wildly for the control, both of them laughing so hard that it felt like gasping.

A moment: a single moment which seemed so incredibly minuscule and out of nowhere. It couldn't have been building up inside of him, could it? He wasn't like that. He'd been with Amy, and he had two kids, and he'd never thought about another man like that, not ever.

All he knew was that he wanted to kiss Justin then, and the thought was so loud that it overtook everything. He dropped the control, and the sound that it made when it landed on the floor seemed louder in his head, like a heavy, echoing thump.

Justin had snatched it up, triumphant.

"I win."

Ste's hands are on the keyboard, poised.

He doesn't even know where to begin.

 _Settings. Change settings._

 _Interested in women._

He shuts the computer down for the night.

::::::

Three eighteen.

The numbers flash at him. He groans at the earliness of the hour, turning the clock on his bedside table away from him.

He doesn't know what's worse, the nightmares or the lack of sleep.

He could go into the kitchen, make himself a drink - it's supposed to be hot milk that sends people to sleep, isn't it? - but he doesn't want to risk disturbing Amy or the kids. The floorboards in this flat tend to creak, and he's never quite mastered the art of tiptoeing, something that Warren's pointed out enough times on patrol. _The rabids can hear you coming a mile off, Ratboy._

There's only one sure way of sending him back to sleep. Something to settle him, to clear his mind.

It's too cold to take his clothes off. He leaves them on, reaching a hand into his loose pyjama bottoms, letting out a stifled gasp when his cold fingers wrap around his cock. He takes his hands out, blows hot air onto them, rubs them together to try and create warmth.

He returns them, feeling nothing at first. His cock barely reacts to the friction. He's too wired.

 _Forget all the other shit._

He tries to focus solely on this, rubbing his thumb over the slit of his cock and feeling it stir.

He closes his eyes. It's rare that he gets to do this these days; he's usually too exhausted from getting home from patrol, and in the mornings he has to get up to feed the kids, get them ready for school. He feels months of pent up frustration coming to the fore, and his strokes get harder. He changes what he does; broad strokes for a few minutes, and then concentrating on the head of his cock, fingers trailing over his foreskin.

He's hard, but not hard enough to come.

He could continue like this, just like this. Bringing himself off just through touch alone, with no more stimulation than his hand on his cock, rough strokes making him clench his toes, the pleasure of it shooting through the whole of his body.

But the best orgasms he's had come through what he imagines; the fantasies that he builds in his head that grow vivid, so real that he can hear the other person, taste them, smell them, feel them against his skin. When he starts to picture them his body will convulse and his breaths will come fast and hard, his hand working frantically to play catch up.

He thinks about Rae. There's a part of him that feels guilty for using her in this way, her long blond hair and her breasts filling his vision; the way she'd looked in a dress the night they'd first met, how her legs had seemed endless, how the material had clung to her skin. She'd been everything he liked in a girl - opinionated, not giving him an easy time, a mouth on her that could hold her own in an argument. He'd tried to fuck her there and then in the club, but she hadn't been having any of it. She'd insisted on staying with her friends.

 _I deserve better than being fucked in a toilet, Ste._

 _They'd got a cab back home together; him and Justin, Rae and the girls. Ste had expected her to go home - alone - but when it had been just the two of them left, she'd invited him in._

" _You sure?"_

 _She lived with her grandma. He didn't like to ask what had happened to her mum and dad, and she hadn't told him. She was guarded, closed, but she reached for his hand._

" _We'll have to be quiet."_

 _Something had felt wrong about fucking on a creaking bed with Rae's gran asleep in the next room, but he'd been too drunk to let it be more than a passing worry._

Ste's hand works deftly, hurriedly, the cover moving with every rapid stroke. _Rae's hands on him. Rae's lips on his, and then her mouth getting lower, trailing down his stomach, tongue passing over his belly button. He'd laughed then, had always been ticklish there, and she'd smiled up at him before moving lower. He'd doubted at first whether she'd do it, but then he'd felt her lips on his balls, and then on his dick, her tongue swirling over the head. She hadn't been able to take a lot of him into her mouth at first, but that was okay; the noises she was making and the wet suction were enough to make him have to bite down on his hand, stop himself from crying out._

He uses his free hand now, too; puts his teeth on the skin there, the noises he's making growing muffled as his other hand continues to work.

 _He'd been aware after a while of a selfishness to his actions. He'd tried to delay and delay, determined to come inside her body instead of her mouth, and he was mindful of the poor girl getting jaw ache._

" _Wait."_

 _She'd looked alarmed, like she was waiting for him to run. It had taken him aback, that sudden show of vulnerability, and Ste had reached out, stroked her cheek._

" _Just... let's..." He motioned to her that he wanted to change positions, and she'd moved away from him. It was the first chance he'd had to really see her naked body. There had been a rush before to discard clothes and to kiss, but now he took in the sight of her._

 _She was tiny, not an ounce of fat on her stomach as she knelt on the bed. Her make up was still intact despite the humidity of the club, and her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright even in the low light of the bedroom._

 _He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, but he didn't want to scare her off._

" _Will you lie down for me? Flat on the bed?" He made his voice soft, sensed that Rae wasn't someone who took kindly to commands._

 _She lay with her feet closest to him, waiting. He clambered round so that his bum was facing her. There was something about the position that gave him a feel of momentary self consciousness; he was as exposed as it was possible to be, and if the edges weren't softened with alcohol then he might have been afraid that she'd laugh at him._

 _He hadn't had much practice at this. He started at the insides of her thighs, kissing them as she put her lips on his dick again, angled him into her mouth._

 _He licked her slowly, listened to see how much she liked it, if he should linger or move on, go faster and deeper, and when he felt the heel of her foot pressing against his head he knew she wanted more, that she was pulling him closer towards her._

He feels a dribble of pre cum against his hand as he works his cock faster. He smears it over the head, uses it so his strokes can intensify.

 _He remembers how wet she was. He'd chosen to focus on that instead of how hard he was, how much he'd needed to come. Again he'd delayed; he licked around inside her with his tongue, buried himself in her, and the noises she made felt like an affirmation, felt like reassurance of how much she wanted him. And he needed to be wanted._

 _He drew back._

" _Let me know when -"_

 _She'd interrupted him, asked him not to stop, and he knew she was close then._

" _Ste, can you..."_

" _What?" He knew not to move his lips away this time. "Tell me what to do." There was satisfaction in this, in the idea of bringing her off. There had always been an uncertainty about it before, about whether he could make a girl come, and he'd felt too uncomfortable to ask if he had. But now Rae was instructing him, was making it clear that she was nearly there. He liked it._

He shifts positions; gets up on his knees, reaches clumsily into his bedside drawer. Burrowed underneath his socks and hidden in a plastic bag is a bottle of lube that he'd bought online, one that had come (thank god) in inconspicuous packaging. He knows he could have gone into a shop, that no one would have suspected anything - he wasn't doing anything wrong, was he? - but something had stopped him. The thought of the glances he might get. The possibility of bumping into someone he knew in town, and word getting back to Warren, to Amy.

He uncaps the bottle, empties too much onto his hand so that it spills through his fingers and onto the sheets. He covers the wet patch with a pillow and makes sure that his fingers are coated from knuckle to tip, then reaches behind himself.

 _One, two three._ He inserts the first finger on _three_ , braces himself for the strange feeling of invasion, for the shudder to go through him, the initial flinch. He's come to the conclusion that it's not dissimilar to tickling yourself in that it doesn't quite work the same way when he's doing it to himself. The pleasure that he's seen in porn doesn't seem to come. He doesn't writhe in pleasure on his bedsheets like the men he's seen, and he's never come through this alone, but he keeps on trying. At first it had felt unbearably tight, and he'd wondered if there was something wrong with him. Other people liked it, so why didn't he? He'd kept going; practiced more, got lube that was thicker and denser, stroked his cock at the same time to increase the feeling of stimulation. Now he's reached a point where, combined with the movements on his dick, he can come.

 _He hadn't fingered her for long before she wanted him inside her. He was on top of her, kissing her as he entered her, rocking back and forth. They were both trying to be quiet, and he managed it until he came; then there was a moment where he couldn't stop himself from shouting out, and she was shushing him to try to get him to shut up, and then they were both laughing._

A second finger. His movements on his dick increase, and he only pauses to spit into his palm, wants to go even faster. There's an edge of frustration to it. He's still not close enough.

He closes his eyes.

 _Strong arms holding him down. He's being pinned there, but there's a safeness about it that allows him to let go. He knows he's being looked after, that there's someone to catch him when he falls._

 _He's being kissed everywhere; jaw, throat, lips lingering on his nipples until they're erect enough to be tugged with teeth._

 _His legs are lifted up, put onto shoulders. He's being fucked in one long, swift movement that makes his insides feel like they're rattling, his skin humming from the pressure. He traces the arms in front of him, strokes them, fingers gliding over the expanse of muscle, over the tattoos. They're indistinct in his head - no clear patterns, no discernible colouring - but they're as real to Ste as the feeling that's coursing through his body._

 _The face is hazy too, the features not yet formed in his mind._

His forehead is pressed against his pillow, sweat trickling down his cheek. He keeps his pyjama bottoms on but removes his top, needing some relief from the heat that's flooding him.

 _Ste drags the man closer. Widens his legs to allow them easier access. Opens up his mouth wider to let their tongue further in. Angles his pelvis to let himself be fucked deeper._

 _There's a voice. Low, private, just for him._

" _Turn around."_

 _He moves onto his stomach, does it more eagerly than he's ever done anything, suddenly feels empty when the man withdraws._

 _He's entered again immediately, the motion so smooth that it almost feels like nothing. The man rolls them both onto their sides; has his hand around Ste's stomach, Ste's back pressed against him, the man's lips grazing his neck. They're moving together, Ste thrusting backwards, not an inch of space between them._

 _It's how he wants it. Exactly how he wants it._

 _He's coming, he can feel it. The build up inside him and the man's wet mouth on his skin, his teeth creating marks there - it's too much, all of it, too much for him to contain._

His dicks slips and slides in his fist, two fingers working inside him.

 _The man doesn't want to come inside him, not today. His thumbs are on Ste's shoulders and they're rubbing, letting him know where he wants him. Ste crawls down his body, reaching his cock, dark hair surrounding it. He grasps it, determined. He's thought about this for a long time, and there's a weight of expectation that makes his hands shake. He gets over it; leans forward, listens to the man's breath hitching above him, excited, as Ste angles his dick into his mouth._

He comes onto his sheets, panting into his pillow; comes with what feels like a roar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note** : I have now added a glossary at the beginning of chapter one, for anyone who hasn't watched In The Flesh and may be confused by certain terms.

* * *

The first thing he feels when he wakes is pain. It's centered around his back and arms, and the sensation is more acute than it was the day before. He thought he would manage to escape with little more than a few bruises and marks, but his body feels sore, weighed down. It takes longer than usual to get out of bed; he winces as he sits up, the dull ache all he can focus on.

He goes to the mirror, lifts up his t-shirt. There's a light bruise on his back, an angry purple colour, and when he slips the material off his shoulders he can still see half moon marks from where Warren's fingernails had scored his skin. His wrists still contain the evidence of when Brendan had held his hands behind his back.

He covers himself with his dressing gown, goes into the kitchen. The kids and Amy are already up; he hopes Amy doesn't hear the way he winces when Lucas runs into his arms wanting to be picked up.

He kisses his forehead, puts him down and waits for the pain to subside.

It's only when he's half way through his tea and toast that she tells him that Warren's called.

"What? When? Why didn't you tell me?" He's already out of his seat, breakfast forgotten.

"Slow down."

"Amy, when did he call?"

"About an hour ago."

"An _hour_?" He makes for the hallway, grabs his jacket off the hook, stumbles his way into his shoes.

Amy follows him, and he can see the kids' eyes on him, their cereal neglected and growing soggy.

"I just wanted you to get some rest. I heard you up late last night. I thought maybe you couldn't sleep, or -"

 _I heard you._ He falters at that, hand stilling around his laces that he's been doing up. He'd tried to be quiet last night. He scans Amy's face, tries to see exactly what she's heard, but nothing in her expression gives her away.

"Did I wake you?" He asks carefully.

"No. I couldn't sleep anyway. But I just heard you going to the bathroom, that's all."

He releases the breath that he's been holding.

"Right. Sorry, I just ended up staying up a bit later. Had a lot to think about, you know?" He resumes collecting his things together, going into the living room and climbing onto a chair to reach for his gun. Amy's hidden it even more than the last time, placing several photographs in front of it. He takes his time to move them out of the way to avoid breaking any, then stuffs the gun as quickly as possible into his back pocket, out of the view of the kids when he returns to the front door.

"Warren's not going to be angry, is he?"

 _Yes._

"No. No, he'll be fine."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I just...after what you said yesterday..."

It was a mistake to be that honest with her. He's made her worried, he can tell. He can't take back his words, can't undo the fact that she knows now that he wants out of this job, out of everything that ties him to the Human Volunteer Force.

"Listen, I'll try not to be late tonight, okay? I'll get some food in if you want."

Amy doesn't look like she entirely believes him. He can't blame her - he's lost count of the number of times that he's promised that he'll buy them dinner, only to be forced to patrol into the early hours of the morning.

It takes her a while to nod, to give him a smile.

"Love you," Ste calls into the kitchen, and he gets the voices of his children echoing back to him as they continue eating, believing that everything's alright in their world.

::::::

Ste expects them to all be meeting at the pub as usual, but he finds the place virtually empty, Frankie leaning on her elbows on the bar and looking like she's waiting for her shift to be over.

When he calls Tony he finds out their new location: they've rented a room in the town hall, somewhere usually only reserved for formal meetings and the occasional charity event.

He's now over an hour and a half late, and he's out of breath by the time he reaches the entrance to the town hall.

He races into the room, door slamming shut behind him.

He'd expected the Human Volunteer Force to be there. What he hadn't expected was that _they'd_ also be there.

At first he's sure that he's got the wrong location. He's about to walk out of the room when he sees Tony, and then he notices Warren at the front of the gathered crowd. He's shaking his head at him for his lateness, another disappointment to add to the ever growing list.

He's sure that he's entered a parallel universe, one where there are rotters amongst the HVF. He takes in the sight of them, dozens of them sitting in rows, facing the front where Warren and the other members of the group are standing. Ste walks slowly forward, taking more and more in: the cover up mousse. The contacts. It takes him a moment to realise that they also appear to be dressed in a kind of uniform. On top of their normal clothes they're all wearing bright orange jackets, the kind you'd see on motorcyclists in the dark.

"Sorry I'm late."

"How are you feeling, Hay?"

He's momentarily stunned. Warren never asks him how he is.

"That girl of yours - what's her name - Alice? Alison?"

"Amy." Warren knows it's Amy. He's lived in the same village as her for years.

"Amy, that's right. She told me you were feeling ill."

"Oh. Right."

Is that what Amy had wanted? For him to pretend to be too sick to come in? Was this all part of the plan, to just hope that Warren would buy it and somehow never chase him up, never expect anything from him again?

He loves the way she sees things. Loves the innocence of it. He used to think like that, once.

"So?" Warren prompts. "Feeling better? I can't have you infecting all my boys."

"I'm fine. I'm over it."

"You better be." He turns away from Ste, done with him.

Ste shuffles closer to Darren, gives a muffled _what's going on?_ but he's hushed. He faces the front, looks out at the crowd again, and there, sitting on the third row closest to the edge, is Brendan.

The rotter doesn't appear to have seen him at first; or if it has, it seems determined not to look. It's staring off to the side, arms crossed, slouching in its seat. It's dressed in a suit again, different to the first one that Ste had seen it in. This one's grey and even tighter - Ste didn't think that was possible - and its shoes still look brand new, like they've only just been shined.

It's not that which makes Ste look harder. He's staring, and if anyone looked at him and followed his line of sight they'd see exactly what he's fixated on, but he can't look away; has to take it in, because it's so _strange_.

The rotter looks human. Looks more human than Ste had seen it look the last time, the first time. Brendan's got contact lenses in and the cover up mousse on. There's that slight orange tint to its skin now like there is with all of them. Ste had been right when he'd thought that the rotter had blue eyes in its former life; there's not a trace of the previous abnormality there, no black or yellow showing through. The black rings around its fingernails are still prominent though - something that can be covered up with concealer, Ste's heard, but he guesses that for Brendan the cover up mousse is enough.

The rotter's discomfort is obvious. Painfully obvious. Brendan's twitchy, all moving fingers and fidgeting legs, looking around the room like it doesn't quite know how it's come to be here. Ste waits for the rotter to notice him, and it does, finally. They lock eyes. Ste expects Brendan to be challenging, to dare him to look away, but there's a flicker of something like embarrassment there, and the rotter resumes looking around the room like it hasn't seen him.

The rotter's ashamed. _It looks ashamed that I'm seeing it like this. I saw it when it was locked up in a cage, skin pale and eyes uncovered, but here, now - this is where it doesn't want me to look._

The room quietens down when Warren begins speaking. Ste can't put his finger on it, on the effect Warren has. It's not that he looks intimating; there's more fat to him than muscle, and most of the time he's wearing a large puffa jacket that makes him look like he's lost at sea - but he can silence a crowd, get them listening. His methods are hardly revolutionary: he's a spit in your face, slam you against a wall type of guy, but Ste's had that done to him enough times to know that it's not a position you want to be in. It works, and Warren knows it.

He's patronising. That's the first thing Ste notices. Scratch the surface and there's the usual ingrained disgust there, but it's more hidden, and then Ste sees why; they're not alone. It's not just the Human Volunteer Force against the rotters. They have guests.

There's a man and a woman sitting in the far corner of the room. They're older than the rest of the crowd, hair greying, hands working hurriedly; they appear to be taking notes, eyes focused on the page of their identical notebooks. Something about them seems familiar, and Ste struggles to place them for a moment while Warren's voice becomes a distant hum next to him, drowned out by his concentration. Then he remembers: they're part of the council. They both came during the last meeting, which couldn't have been more than a few months ago. They're here to protect. The partially deceased have rights too, they'd said at that last meeting, only to be met with open laugher from the outspoken, and a strained silence from the more polite.

Warren's more genial behaviour suddenly becomes a lot clearer.

"This is a brilliant chance to unite us all. Really make a difference."

Ste reengages, giving his full attention to Warren now, trying not to avert his gaze to the council members and their scribbling fingers. They look like they've filled up pages of their notebooks, and they show no signs of slowing. How could they have that much to write about already?

Perhaps their notes aren't quite as polished as they make out. Ste imagines a judgmental scrawl: _This guy's a bastard. He thinks he's fooling us. He thinks we're believing this, these lies, this twisting of facts._

Ste risks it; he looks out across the sea of faces, hoping that Warren doesn't notice that he doesn't have his undivided attention.

They're buying it, the rotters. He sees it in their eyes. The falseness of the contacts doesn't disguise the sincerity, how badly they want to believe everything Warren's saying. _We can all work together._ It's a convincing speech, and the rotters are sitting up in rapt fascination. A new start, they're thinking. Ste sees it, and something in him aches.

They all believe it. All of them except Brendan.

The rotter's the only one who isn't looking at Warren.

Ste blinks, dazed, wondering how long it's been since Brendan's been staring at him.

He's sure the rotter wasn't doing it a moment ago.

But -

Something - paranoia, perhaps - makes him feel like he's been watched for longer than he knows.

He looks away, then back again. Still staring.

Away. Back again. Definitely still staring. It's unavoidable now. Even when Ste looks away he can feel the heat of Brendan's gaze on him.

"What?" He mouths it, reassured that no one else will see, that they're too busy listening to Warren's speech about _togetherness_ and _community_ and _fulfillment_. Ste's vaguely aware of what the meeting's about: Warren seems to be suggesting a project. Hiring rotters, paying them the minimum wage - barely - in exchange for hard labour. He's selling it as decent, honest work. Something that you can be proud of. Something that'll give you the income to support you and your family. Slave labour, is what it is. What Warren fails to mention to the rotters and the council is that he'll give them barely enough to get by, and he'll be supervising the whole thing - overseeing the work, kicking them when they're down, getting rid of the weak, breaking the strong until they crumble too. Ste knows how this goes; even when Warren's voice is just fuzzy background noise, the message is clear.

Everyone believes it because they want to believe it. Except Brendan.

The rotter hasn't answered Ste's " _what?"_ It hasn't done anything to suggest that it's noticed the question, but Ste knows it must have.

He wants to shouts across the hall, ask the rotter why it's still looking. He settles for glances here and there; looks towards Warren one moment, then back. Still staring. Still looking thoroughly unimpressed by the entire spectacle.

Wait, is Brendan - ?

 _Yes_. The rotter's actually closed its eyes now. Fucking cheek of it.

Brendan let's out a yawn, leans back in the chair even more, scratches at its hip halfheartedly, lazily. Ste looks at Warren to see if he's seen, but there's no sign of it. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't show that he's anything but focused on his speech, his shining inspirational moment.

 _Open your eyes_. Ste's sure that Warren wouldn't cause a scene while the council's here, but with them gone, and Brendan cornered -

As Ste thinks it, Brendan does it.

There's that sea of blue again, eyes staring at Ste. The human appearance of them is still a shock. Like glass, Brendan had said. _The contact lenses feel like glass._ The rotter doesn't look in pain, but Ste wonders if it would show it even if it was.

He'd never considered before that the contacts might hurt. He'd looked at a rotter's information booklet before - _partially deceased information booklet_ \- and there were things about administrating Neurotryptiline and the possible side effects. He'd thought they'd seemed terrifying at the time: blackouts, extreme dizziness, seizures. But everything was wrapped in a neat bow. Everything had a solution; you called a nurse, someone specially trained, and that was that.

No one had ever told him about all the other things.

He had never asked.

"Anyone home in there?"

Ste blinks, flinching away from the fingers clicking in front of his eyes. He hadn't even noticed Warren turning to face him.

Everyone's staring at him.

"What?"

Warren turns back to the council, and Ste can just about see the look that Warren gives them. _Don't mind him. He's always like this._ They give thin smiles, staring at Ste with a newfound carefulness. They've clearly decided that he's the dim one, to be handled with a certain degree of disdain.

Tony helps him out. "He wants you to take the sheet, Ste." He whispers it so closely in his ear that Ste can feel specks of saliva on his skin.

"What?"

"Sheet." Tony nods in front of them, and Ste sees the sheet of paper that he's talking about. He takes it from Warren, stares down at it, but all he can make out is what appears to be a list of names.

He stares at Warren, dumbfounded.

"Jesus Christ, Hay." Warren rolls his eyes in an exaggerated gesture, giving a mirthless laugh and grabbing the paper back. "Stand up when I call out your name," he directs to the crowd. He seems to be using surnames only - another underhand tactic to distance himself from the rotters, Ste guesses - and stops when there's five of them standing. Ste recognises some of their faces; people he's passed in town, people he's seen down the pub, but he wouldn't know a single one of their names.

Brendan remains seated. The rotter seems to have made its shoulder its own makeshift pillow, its chin resting against it, an increasingly bored expression on its face.

"Over there." Warren points to a corner of the room, watching as the five selected rotters move and awkwardly stand together, their unease clear. The minute Warren looks away they start whispering amongst themselves. Warren consults his list again.

"Right, Tony next."

Once more he reels off a list of names. The rotters in this group look less apprehensive than the ones in Ste's own; when Ste looks over at his group they seem to shrink further away into the corner.

"Brady."

Brendan doesn't stand right away. All eyes settle on the rotter. It seems entirely oblivious to the attention, continuing to stay in its current hold, its chin still resting on its shoulder, its eyelids heavy, its stance unaffected.

"Brady."

Ste can hear the annoyance seeping into Warren's voice. Tony tries to play peacemaker, calls out _Brendan_ as though this will make a difference, earning him a glare from Warren at the interruption.

The other rotters are staring at Brendan. The council members look at Warren expectantly, then hurriedly begin to write in their notebooks when he fails to act.

Ste steps forward.

"Brendan Brady."

Brendan looks up, looks right at him.

"Yes?" The rotter speaks as though it's shocked at the sound of its name being called, like it's only just heard.

"Stand up," Ste says. He's being cold and he doesn't care. He doesn't look at the council for their reactions. If his group already think he's a bastard then perhaps it shouldn't be his job to correct them.

Brendan stands, slowly like it takes an effort. There's that same flicker of a smile again, a smile that Ste's starting to suspect is for _his_ benefit, to piss _him_ off.

"Move over there." Warren points to another corner of the room, has got his voice back now, his arrogance. He doesn't take his eyes off Brendan as the group rearranges themselves. When they're settled he begins to read the list of names once more, going through all the rotters and the group members until everyone's been assigned. It passes without any further interruptions. No one else reacts like Brendan did.

Warren clears his throat, although there's little need; now that the attention has shifted away from Brendan everyone's looking in his direction, their expressions tentative as though he could strike out at them at any moment.

"These are going to be your working groups for the next few months."

Ste doesn't miss the whisper of _months_ that echoes around the room. He wonders what it took to make the rotters all come here in the first place - the promise of something good, something hopeful? It can't have been the promise of labour for below the minimum wage, stretching on indefinitely. Because that's what it is - Ste knows - _indefinite_. Months will stretch out into years. All a ploy to keep the rotters on a tight leash, to make them do the jobs that no one else will. To keep an eye on them.

"Take a look around you." Warren waits while they do it. "You're going to be spending a lot of time with these people. You're going to be a..." He looks directly at the council members, who are still furiously scribbling in their notebooks. "Family. Family, is what you are." The word looks like it's stuck in his throat, something that tastes unpleasant. "So no funny business." He keeps his voice light, but Ste doesn't miss the way he looks around the room carefully, focusing particularly on the rotters who have already shot glares at each other; clearly not everyone will think of this as a _family_.

"Right. You all know what to do." Warren looks around at the HVF members, nodding and motioning for them to start.

Ste looks around, a sense of mild panic beginning to engulf him.

What the fuck is he meant to do?

He timidly puts his hand in the air, feels not unlike how he used to when he was at school, waiting for the teacher to pick him during the rare times when he used to volunteer.

He waits, can see his group staring at him for instruction. He doesn't look directly at them, doesn't want to see their bemusement at the person who's meant to be their leader with his hand in the air, waiting to find out what the hell he's supposed to be doing.

He can still see that _thing_ though. When he's looking around, trying to catch someone's eye, the rotter fills his vision. Brendan may as well not be in Tony's group - may as well not be in any group, the way it's standing at a distance. It's not staring directly at Ste's face, and it takes Ste a moment to realise what it's staring at. He quickly lowers his arm when he registers Brendan's gaze on it, and the rotter's clear amusement at him being in this helpless state, waiting for one of the other HVF members to guide him.

Ste stretches, attempts to pass off the raised hand as an involuntary movement. Something tells him the rotter isn't buying it.

He turns back to his group. "Stay here one sec, yeah? I'm just gonna..."

He can't think of an appropriate excuse, letting the sentence trail off as he makes his escape. He'd normally go to Tony in such a situation, but he knows Brendan will be there, beside him and enjoying his discomfort.

He makes a beeline for Darren instead.

"Darren?"

He doesn't pay any attention to Ste at first. He's already directing his team, his voice clear and confident. Professional. When a couple of rotters start talking to each other it takes only a second before Darren brings a stop to it, and the two end up staring at the floor, not giving each other another glance.

"Darren. Sorry to interrupt, but -"

Darren gives an elongated sigh. He turns slowly, as though it takes all his effort to focus on Ste.

"What?"

"It's just..." Ste looks around the group. All eyes are on him, and he can foresee what will happen if he reveals his incompetence in front of them. There'll be some laughter, muted but he'll still be able to see it, and then the whispering will come. He's meant to know this stuff, he's meant to be in charge here. He's not meant to be showing himself up.

"Can I talk to you over here for a minute?" Ste nods, gestures for Darren to step outside the circle.

"I'm busy, Hay."

"I won't be long." He's beginning to feel distinctly irritated now. He was late for reasons beyond his control, and now he's being punished for it. Warren must be loving this, knowing that he's the only one without information here, knowing that he's being made a fool of.

Darren sighs but follows him, keeping an eye on the group of rotters who stand awkwardly, aware of him still only being inches away.

"What is it?"

"I don't..." He struggles to find the right words, to find something that doesn't make him sound completely out of his depth.

"What? You don't what? Look Ste, I don't mean to be a bastard, but Warren's expecting me to look after this lot, and if he sees me chatting to you -"

"I don't know what to do, okay?" He feels breathless when he says it.

There's silence, and then a moment when it looks like Darren's going to laugh at him before he seems to rein it in.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't know what's going on. I was late, wasn't I, and then...no one told me..."

Fuck. He sounds pitiful.

"Ask Warren. He'll fill you in."

Ste can already see Darren ready to turn back to his group, dismissing him.

"Wait! No, I just..." _Don't panic. Don't sound like you're panicking._ "Please, don't make me... I don't want to ask Warren, okay? I can't. He'll..." He doesn't want to explain how big of an idiot he'll seem.

He must be due some luck, because Darren doesn't press it.

"Here." He digs into his pocket, takes out a slightly crumpled piece of paper. "Warren gave us this at the pub before we came here."

Ste quickly scans the paper. The words seem to bleed into one another, until all he can decipher is black lines. He blinks, forces himself to focus and to read each word slowly, but he can't make sense of it.

He can feel Darren staring at him, waiting.

"Thanks, that's..."

"Everything alright then?"

"Yeah, that's... Ta."

"No problem. Just keep it away from Warren, yeah? I don't want him seeing that I gave it to you."

"Sure." Ste tucks it away in his pocket, stumbling across the room, his head feeling like it's going to crack in two.

He doesn't risk glancing to see where Warren is, what he's looking at; he's scared it's him, that he's the focal point, that Warren's witnessed the entire exchange. When he returns to his group they're all silent - _too_ silent - and Ste wonders what they've been saying about him in his absence.

"Sorry about that." He clears his throat, can feel his heart hammering uncomfortably, his palms sweating. "How about we go round and say all our names again?"

The rotters look surprised, perhaps even grateful at the request. Ste doesn't tell them that it's to bide time rather than an attempt at politeness.

He doesn't take any of it in. Some of the names he registers momentarily, but as soon as he hears them they're gone, and the rotters are just faces to him again, tinged with the orange of the cover up mousse, their contacts disguising the true nature of them.

It takes him a moment to realise that they're all staring at him expectantly.

"And I'm Ste," he finishes, and there's such a lack of authority and confidence behind the words that he mocks himself internally: _And I'm Ste._ It rings in his head, snapping at him, goading him. He's meant to be in charge here. He's meant to be the person they're all scared of.

He stands a little taller, uncrosses his arms, makes sure that he has eye contact with all of them as he stares around the circle.

"Ste Hay."

"Hay?"

He turns to the rotter who's spoken. He's forgotten their name already - prompts it for it, and it grunts out _Jacqui_ like he's offended it by needing to be reminded. The rotter's wearing one of the most garish ensembles Ste's ever seen: large hoop earrings that seem to dominate its face, with leopard print leggings, its hair scraped back into a ponytail so tight that Ste's surprised it's not causing the rotter a severe headache.

"Your surname's Hay?"

The other rotters stay quiet; they seem to all be marveling at Jacqui's brashness. Ste sees one of them - Rhys, he thinks the rotter's called - doing a double take, its eyes trailing up and down Jacqui's body before flicking away.

"Yeah." He feels defensive and he doesn't know why.

The rotter looks like it's trying to remember something, its forehead creasing.

"What?" Ste says, frustrated now. He should be relieved at the distraction, but he feels uncomfortable that his name seems to mean something to the rotter.

"Lucas Hay - is he yours?"

Ste feels like his skin has turned to ice, a shiver running through him.

"How do you know Lucas?"

He should have denied it. He realises it the minute the words are out of his mouth. He should have pretended that Jacqui's got the wrong man, that he doesn't know what the rotter's talking about. Now he's opened up a part of his life that he's always wanted to keep separate. He's exposed his children to these _things_.

"I met him the other day." Jacqui says it casually, as though it's normal. "Saw him with his mother, I think she is? Young girl. Blonde hair. About this tall." The rotter holds up its hand, shows Ste. "Girlfriend, is she?" Jacqui looks at Ste appraisingly, and he can't help but feel like there's judgement there, that the rotter's saying _you did well, didn't you?_

"No, she's my..." He stops himself before it's too late. No details. Not a single one, not when it's to do with his private life. He raises his voice, doesn't look away from Jacqui even though everything inside him is screaming at him to do so, the rotter's eyes hard and cold. "Listen, we're not here to talk about this, alright? You're not here to talk at all. You're here to do work, and to do it well. That's it. I'm not here to be your friend or to babysit you, okay? Got that?"

He waits. His face feels hot, and he's sure he's gone red, but at least he's said it. At least they know now. They can't be talking about his children, about his family.

All the rotters bar Jacqui are staring anywhere but at him. For a moment Ste thinks the rotter's going to start something, but then it nods lightly, lips pursed, and Ste's sure he seems its mouth twitching with the struggle to contain itself.

"Got it."

There's anger there, unmistakable, but Ste chooses to ignore it. The important thing is that the rotter's admitted defeat. He's in control again.

"Good."

"So go on then. Tell us what to do."

"What?"

Jacqui repeats it, hands on its hips. Ste notices that its nails aren't as starkly black as some of the other rotters; they're manicured and long, painted a bright red. He almost asks where the hell the rotter had gone to get them done - he can't imagine anyone offering those services to one of their kind - but he focuses on the question instead, has the uncomfortable feeling that he's already fallen into a trap.

"Right. That's..." He brings the piece of paper out of his pocket again, tears it in his haste to read it. He takes a breath, smooths it out, and tries again. Again the words blur into each other. Some he can make sense of - the simple ones, the ones which require no real thought on his part - but the others are jumbled, and he can't even begin to try and say them, let alone understand what they mean. Who designed this thing?

"Are you okay, Ste?"

The sound of his name coming from the rotter's mouth disarms him.

"What?" He looks up sharply. Jacqui may be the only one speaking, but the other rotters aren't as docile now; he's sure he can see them struggling to contain their laughter, even though they're careful not to make a sound.

"What's wrong?" Jacqui nods at the paper, then looks back at him. "I thought we had work to do? Thought you were going to tell us all about it?"

"I am." He stares so hard at the words that his sight begins to blur, and there's a noise in his head like he's underwater, everything distant, a dream world.

Then there's another voice, different from the others, and Ste feels his skin prickle. He registers the shadow behind him, making patterns on the floor.

"Keep it down, won't you?" There's that Irish drawl. Ste's about to turn around, ask the rotter what the fuck it thinks it's doing, sneaking up and ordering him around, but when he looks he sees that Brendan's not even looking at him, doesn't seem to register him. "I can barely hear anything with you talking." Ste follows Brendan's line of sight, watches as Jacqui's expression turns to one of anger.

"What's it to you?"

Before Ste can intervene, Brendan's grabbed the piece of paper from his hands.

"What are you -"

Ste watches open mouthed as Brendan scrunches the paper into a ball, rolling it in its palm.

"Brendan!"

Brendan faces him for the first time. "Oops."

"What the hell are you doing? That's my instructions, that's -"

They're interrupted by the shrill sound of a whistle. Ste puts his hands over his ears involuntarily, turning until he locates the source: Warren, standing at the front of the room, whistle to his lips, his group looking thoroughly relieved that he's given them some breathing space.

"That's it for today everyone."

No one manages to disguise their joy at his words.

"Same time tomorrow. Same place. I'll see you then."

The rotters all begin to file out - all at a great speed, Ste notices - until there are only a handful left behind; the unlucky few who haven't been fast enough, and are now staring around in panic as they realise they're outnumbered by the HVF.

Ste tries to find Brendan amongst the crowd, but the rotter's disappeared.

He nods a goodbye to the remaining members of his group, watching them leave before he approaches Tony.

"What happened to you?"

"What? Why?" Ste says, wondering what his face must look like, not sure if he wants to know the answer.

"You look..." The smile disappears from Tony's face. "Seriously, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just... You do know that one of your group interrupted mine, don't you?"

 _Interrupted_ isn't the word Ste would choose to use. It seems far too mild for what Brendan did, but he has to go about this carefully.

"One of my group? Who?"

There's something about the way that Tony says it that Ste doesn't trust. He turns his back on him, seems to be suddenly preoccupied with putting his jacket on.

"Brendan."

"Which one's Brendan again?"

"The one with the..." Ste does a tache gesture.

Tony laughs. "Oh, that one. Bit weird, isn't it? Looks like something out of a nineties porno."

"It came over, started interfering."

"What was it saying?"

"It..." Ste tries to think. What _did_ Brendan exactly say? Not much. "It's not about what it said, exactly."

"What's the problem then?"

"The rotter... it took the piece of paper from me. You know, the one Warren gave us." He doesn't mention how he'd had to borrow Darren's. "It... it ruined it."

He's aware of how childish he sounds. He's talking about the undead, about killers, and all he can come out with is _it ruined my piece of paper._

"Why didn't you come over, stop it?"

"Ste." Tony puts a hand on his shoulder, gives him that patronising tone that Ste's heard more often than he'd like. "I can't be looking after you all the time."

"I know, I'm not -"

"Warren wants you to stand on your own two feet."

"What? How do you... Has he said something?"

Tony takes his hand away. "No, he hasn't said anything."

"Tony. Come on. You wouldn't just say something like that."

Tony looks away, doesn't speak again until he makes sure that Warren's distracted, busy talking to the council members.

"He mentioned giving you more responsibility. Told me that maybe I shouldn't, you know, look out for you so much."

Ste swallows, feels like something's lodged its way into his throat.

"You don't. That's not what you do."

"Isn't it?"

"No. You take care of things sometimes, but that's what everyone does, isn't it? All of us, we -"

"Darren doesn't look out for you like that. Warren doesn't. None of the others do. It's me that's always picking up the pieces."

 _Picking up the pieces?_

"I'm not some fuck up, Tony."

"Ste, keep your voice down."

Ste looks over, makes sure the council members haven't heard anything.

"I know you're not, okay?" Tony says, his voice softening. "And I wish..."

"What?"

"I wish it didn't have to be like this. But Warren, he..."

"I knew it. I knew this was all down to him. You're just following his instructions, aren't you? He wants you to stop helping me. Is that why he gave Brendan to you?" He feels incapable of stopping now, even if he is overheard. All of this feels like it's been locked away for a long time.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you think it's a bit weird? I was sure that he'd want to keep an eye on Brendan himself, or put him in my group."

"It."

"What?"

"You called Brendan _him_. It's _it_."

"It, whatever." Ste brushes the remark away with his hand. "You're not listening. Why did he give Brendan to you?"

He doesn't think Tony's going to answer, thinks he's going to skirt around the subject until he can manage to shrink away from it completely.

"Why do you think?" His voice is low, and Ste adjusts his accordingly despite his anger.

"Tell me."

"Ste, I..."

"Tell me."

"He wants you to kill Brendan. That's what he told us this morning when you weren't there. Putting the rotter in his group, or your group, it's all too obvious, isn't it? He thinks it won't suspect anything if it's in mine. He wants Brendan to get comfortable, stop thinking that anything's going to happen, and then..."

"And then I'll kill it," Ste finishes, not a question, although Tony gives a quiet _yes_ in reply. He feels in a daze. He knows this, he knows all of this, has known it since he and Brendan were locked in that room together, but now that someone else is in on it too - not just someone else, but _all_ of them -

"How long have I got left?" His voice sounds hoarse.

"You mean Brendan, don't you? How long has Brendan got left?"

"Yeah." It feels like the same thing. "How long?"

"For as long as this project runs. Warren just needs to keep it going while the council are snooping around, and then..."

Then he'll drop them all. Stop all attempts at pretending to run this work scheme, and leave the rotters struggling to get work again. Ste was wrong about this lasting indefinitely. Warren has only taken them on because he has no other choice.

"A few months at the most," Tony adds, zipping up his jacket to the top, signalling the end of the conversation. "Just remember that that thing... it's an it, Ste. Remember that and everything will be fine."


	5. Chapter 5

"Daddy."

The voice is distant. He turns away from it, mumbles something that sounds a lot like _go away_ and holds tighter onto the pillow, as if by doing so he can drown it out completely.

The voice persists, and he's being shaken awake now. There's a dip in the bed, a soft mound landing beside him, then a continuous bouncing motion.

"Leah." He groans, can't help it. He'd had a late night - partly his own choice, partly the result of hours of going over things in his head. At one point he'd wondered whether he should abandon all attempts at sleep entirely. He remembers deciding to go into the kitchen and get a glass of water; he must have finally managed to fall asleep instead.

He sits up groggily, eyes still shut. He opens his arms, waits for his daughter to make a space there, and when she does he holds her tightly, puts his lips against her hair and breathes her in. She smells brand new, as clean as the sheets he's sleeping in.

"Sorry," he says, and she says nothing, but he hopes she understands. He doesn't mean to be like this. He wants to be the kind of dad who's awake before she is, who's ready waiting with breakfast, who finds conversation easy, who knows all the right things to say.

He opens his eyes slowly, is surprised when he sees that the room is bathed in light.

"Shit." He disentangles himself from Leah's arms, tries to hide the expletive with a series of renewed mumbles which he hopes will make Leah forget what he's just said. "What time is it? Am I late again?"

He stands, watches as Leah looks at him. Her face is undisturbed, almost serene in its lack of worry.

 _Good_ , he thinks. _I hope she stays like this forever._

Ste cranes his neck, looks around at the clock that's on his bedside table. His panic begins to subside when he sees the time. It's not yet gone eight. He has an hour before the HVF meeting.

He turns back to Leah, sees her staring at him like she's not quite sure what's going on.

"Sorry about that. I thought..." He shakes himself. _Don't get her involved in this._ He holds his hand out, waits for her to take it. Her hand looks even more tiny in his own. "Come on, let's get you some breakfast. Is Lucas up?"

"He's with mummy."

"Why weren't you with her, eh?" It's unlike Leah to wake him like she did; usually she'll wait until she hears him in the bathroom or sees him around the flat.

"I didn't see you last night. I missed you."

Guilt hits him. He can't bring himself to look at her, to see the disappointment in her face.

"Sorry. I had to... I'm here now."

"Are you going to be back early tonight? I want you to read me a story."

They enter the kitchen. Ste picks Leah up in his arms, sits her down on top of the counter next to the cereal boxes.

"I promise."

He watches her face light up.

"Promise promise?"

"Promise promise." He nods his head, then does a _cross my heart_ sign, tapping his finger to her nose to make her laugh.

Amy and Lucas come in when they're halfway through breakfast. From what Ste can see, Amy's been trying to get Lucas dressed; he runs into the kitchen with a sock missing, Amy looking disgruntled, her cheeks flushed.

"You alright?"

"Yeah." She makes an attempt to take hold of Lucas, but he's more preoccupied with stealing some of Leah's toast; he makes a grab for it, loosening Amy's grip and managing to get peanut butter smeared around his mouth.

Amy drops the spare sock on the floor, sitting opposite Ste at the table.

"Rough morning?"

"Could say that. Lucas doesn't seem to like wearing both socks. Wonder where he got that from." She stares at him pointedly; Ste tucks his feet further underneath the table, trying to disguise the fact that one of his feet is bare.

"I'll try with him in a bit. Listen, sorry about last night."

He'd broken their rule. Even if he has to be up and out of the house before the kids are awake, they've always agreed that he comes back at a decent hour if it's not a patrol night. He hadn't planned to return late; by the time the meeting had finished he still had the day ahead of him. Warren had wanted to go to the pub, to discuss how it had all gone, and he'd tagged along reluctantly, knowing he couldn't get out of it.

He'd meant to use the time to find out what had been written on the piece of paper. He'd avoided Darren the entire time, not sitting next to him at the pub, trying not to be alone with him in case he asked for the paper back. He couldn't admit to him that a rotter had stolen it from him. Ste knew the only person he could ask was Tony, and he was staying true to his word and avoiding him, all because of Warren's _instructions_. Ste had spent most of the time in the corner with a beer, staring into the glass and wondering how long he had to stay before he could begin to make his excuses.

Turns out there was no escape. They'd stayed for hours, for fucking _ever_ , and he'd ordered more and more drinks to try and make it pass for entertaining.

The last thing he can remember is stumbling back to the flat in the pitch black, hand firmly on his gun to feel some form of protection. He'd managed to locate his keys - how he did he'll never know - and had enough good sense to lock the door behind him, bolting it securely before collapsing into bed.

"Warren, was it?"

"Kind of." It doesn't feel like a complete lie. He can see Amy wants to say more, but before she can open her mouth he remembers something; some nagging worry which has gone round his head since yesterday. "Did you talk to a rotter?"

He's sure he's not imagining the way her face turns pale. She reaches for the knife that's leaning against the butter, starts spreading some on her toast.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"We had a meeting yesterday. One of Warren's genius ideas. One of them...one of those things, they told me that they knew Lucas. That they knew you."

She spreads the butter so many times that the toast starts to break up, the knife going through it.

"Amy?"

"Who was it? Who told you that?"

"Someone called Jacqui. Bit older than us, dresses like a right chav." He can hardly bring himself to recall the way she'd spoken to him; like she knew she was pressing at a weak spot.

He waits for Amy to tell him that he's got it all wrong.

She stands, starts clearing away her plate even though she hasn't eaten anything from it.

"I don't _know_ her." Her voice is faint, her back turned. Ste has to strain to hear her above the kids and the sound of water running from the sink. "I just bumped into her one day."

Ste moves closer to her. He doesn't want Leah and Lucas to hear this.

"What do you mean, bumped into her? How did that happen? You don't just...bump into someone like that, Amy."

She turns to face him, and there's an anger in her eyes that has Ste reeling back, surprised.

"It's alright for you. You've got your job, your friends."

He's about to correct her, tell her that no one in the HVF is someone he'd call a friend, especially now that Tony's abandoned him. But the faint echo of how pathetic it sounds in his head stops him.

"You've got your dad, and your sister."

"Yeah, in Manchester. Not here. Not with me. And it's not like I get to visit them a lot anyway. You can barely stand the sight of them."

"That's not true." He tries to think of examples - times when he's gone to see them with her, moments when he's gone out of his way to be nice to them.

He can't. He can't think of anything.

"You know why. You know it's..."

"Complicated. You've told me." She scrubs at the plate she's holding.

"You know if Warren sees me with them, then -"

"How is he going to see, Ste? Has he got spies in Manchester? Sometimes I think you want him to be more powerful than he is."

"Why would I want that?"

"Because then you have an excuse. You never have to answer back to him. You never have to leave that job."

"Leave that job - Amy, the only money we make is from _that job._ What are we meant to live on if I leave it?

"You'd find something else."

"Like what? Because you keep saying it, but I'm not seeing anything else. Warren would never let it go if I left. He'd make sure no one would hire me even if there was something. How are we meant to pay for anything? And all those trips to see your dad and Sarah - I pay for them. _Me_."

He regrets saying it the minute the words have left his mouth. Amy turns on him, and she's being careful to keep her voice down - for the kids' sake, Ste knows, not for his - but she looks close to crying.

"And who asked you to do that? It was your idea for me to take some time out. It was you who said that you'd support us while Lucas was young. You who begged me to give it a few years, that you could make enough by joining the HVF, that there wouldn't be anything dodgy involved, that you would hardly have to do anything."

"And it's your fault for believing me."

He wouldn't blame her if she hit him. He almost wants it; wants something to diffuse the tension, and then maybe they could go back to being how they were.

Instead she fails to acknowledge him at all. She gives a shaky "come here, let's get you dressed" to the kids, scooping them in her arms. They both seem entirely unaware of what's happened, following Amy out of the room, their bedroom door closing behind them.

Ste doesn't know what to do with the silence.

He starts washing up the remaining plates and cutlery. He's careless, putting the knife in the sink, the bubbles from the washing up liquid making it disappear beneath the surface, so that by the time he reaches for it he's forgotten all about it. He cries out as his skin comes into contact with it, the surface area turning red with blood.

"Fuck." He holds his hand underneath the running water, grabbing a paper towel and holding it over the cut as he reaches for a plaster from the cupboard. He's being punished: that's what it feels like. He deserves it after what he said.

He's quiet when he goes to his room, quickly pulling on his clothes. He calls for Amy when he's ready, tells her he's going out and closes the door, not wanting to be faced with her lack of reply.

::::::

Warren looks at his watch, tapping it and then looking at Ste.

"What? I'm not late, am I?"

"Exactly. Are you feeling okay?"

"Very funny. It was one time." He shrugs off his jacket. There are two seats available at their table in the pub; one next to Tony, and the other next to Warren.

Ste sits next to Warren, watches as Tony's smile fades.

He looks around the room. He doesn't know when it was that they started to dominate the pub, but it's slowly become theirs. There are more empty tables than full ones, and the people who come inside always seem to keep a wide birth from them.

People are scared of them.

It took Ste a while to realise this; months, maybe, or perhaps longer. When he'd worn his uniform for the first time and held a gun in his hands, he'd felt protected. _Respected_ , like he was at last owed it. He'd grown arrogant, careless. He felt untouchable, and that feeling had gradually changed into believing that if he felt it, then he therefore was.

He used to like the idea of people avoiding him, of them quickly crossing the road whenever they saw him approach. It was such a dramatic change from what he'd known previously; the dirty looks, the way he'd been spoken down to. If people feared him then it was better than them despising him.

He offers a smile to one of the men sitting a few tables away from them, who's currently eyeing their group warily.

The man sees Ste looking and downs his pint. Some of the foam from his beer is still across his lips when he makes a swift exit.

Ste's too distracted to focus on the sound of his name being called. The man looked like he'd been electrocuted. He couldn't have left fast enough.

He'd looked disgusted.

"Come with me."

Ste turns back to the table. Only Warren's looking at him, but the others are listening in, pretending not to.

"Me?"

"Yes. You." Warren speaks slowly, as though he's dealing with a particularly dim witted child.

"Why me? Is it my turn to get the next round?" He stares around expectantly, half hoping that the group will start putting in their orders.

"Just come on." He's losing his patience, eyes wide, tongue peeking out between his lips in that way of his. Ste's sure he'll be dragged from his seat soon if he keeps it up.

He stands. He can feel Tony looking at him the entire time; when they make eye contact Tony looks like he's about to stand with him, say something.

Ste shakes his head. Tony wanted out. This is his chance. No more responsibility, no more looking after him.

He follows Warren. They walk past the bar, past the other tables. Warren leads the way to the sign for the bathrooms, standing back and holding the door open for Ste. The show of politeness disarms him. He almost ends up tripping over the step, catching himself at the last minute and making his way unsteadily inside.

"What are -"

Before he can finish he's roughly pushed inside the bathroom. Warren checks the stalls hurriedly, glancing under each one to make sure there's no one there, then stands in front of the door, blocking Ste's path.

"Fucking hell."

"Language, Hay." Warren leans his back against the door, a solid weight that Ste knows he'd be foolish to try and get passed.

"It's one of _those_ days, isn't it?" He rakes his hands through his hair, turns around and sees his reflection in the mirror. At first he doesn't recognise his own reflection; expression full of distress, the white of his eyes clouding over with the threat of tears.

He wipes them roughly on his sleeve.

"What are you going on about?"

"Me being your punching bag."

He checks the mirror again. His eyes look better now; not quite ready to fight, but not ready to cry either. He forces himself to look at Warren.

"Go on then. You might as well. A day's not complete without you having a go at me, is it?"

Warren looks at the ceiling.

"Fuck, Ratboy, I didn't think I'd have to deal with your hysterics."

"No, come on. That's what you're here for, isn't it? Take your best shot." Ste spreads his arms, defenseless.

"I'm not going to beat you up."

"No?" He tries not to allow himself to be relieved. He doesn't feel safe yet, not completely.

"Not unless you kept yapping on."

"Right. I knew there was a catch. It's always the same with you, isn't it? You'll leave me alone as long as I play by your rules."

He doesn't know where this has come from. He's being an idiot; reckless, fucking _foolish_ , and he's becoming all too aware that Warren has his gun on him. Ste's never seen him kill a human before, but how much does he really know about him? He's heard things, heard people talking about Warren's past before he came to the village.

All it would take is one shot. Warren could make up an excuse, say that he had to do it, convince people that it was in self defense.

Ste walks closer to the door. Maybe if he distracts Warren enough then he could get past, make a run for it.

And then what? He has nowhere to hide. The flat isn't a refuge; Warren knows where he lives. Warren pays him. If all Ste had to think about was himself then it would be okay. He's lived on the streets before, and he can do it again.

It's not about him any more. He's got bigger things to think about now. Leah and Lucas, they're waiting for him, waiting for him to step up and be a fucking _man_.

"Open your eye, Ste."

He hadn't realised he'd been closing them.

"Ste."

"No. Just... look, whatever you're going to do, just get it over with. You might as well." He stops himself before he adds _Brendan already has_. He's glad the sleeves of his jumper cover the marks that the rotter had left behind on his wrists.

"I want you to do something for me."

Ste's eyes flutter open. It's a trap. It must be.

"What?"

"You do something for me, and we're even."

"Even? What for?"

"For that little stunt you pulled with Brady. Letting the rotter live."

"You never said... You never told me to kill -"

"I told you to play with it. What do you think I meant? Feed the thing, tickle its moustache?"

"No, I..." The artificial lights on the ceiling feel like they're burning into him. "I didn't know."

"You fucked up. But I'm going to give you one more chance."

Ste resists asking what will happen if he doesn't succeed this time; he's not sure he wants to know.

Warren moves from the door, steps closer to Ste. He must realise that he's not going to run, that he knows it's pointless. Ste leans against the sink. He won't be moving until he's told to move.

"I want you to kill Brendan."

He knew it was coming. It's been on his mind ever since Tony told him, but it's been a distant thought, something which he didn't allow himself to focus on. It seemed impossible, something from someone else's life. He was waiting for the punchline: _of course we're not going to ask you to kill anyone,_ and he'd hate them for teasing him, but the relief he'd feel would outweigh the anger at being told such a cruel joke.

He looks at the floor. The tiles look like they're wasting away from years of use, and when he scuffs his trainers along them he's half scared that he'll fall through. He's sure he can hear a tap dripping, but when he looks he can't see anything. It's there though, incessant, _drip drip drip_.

"I'm not going to do it."

The sound of his own voice shocks him. He hadn't been planning to say that. He's going against his own script, against the only answer that Warren wants to hear.

"This isn't a debate. You don't have a choice."

"Yeah I do." He's speaking to the floor but he feels like he possesses more courage than he did a moment ago. "I'm not doing it. You can't make me."

Perhaps Warren realises this at the same time that Ste does, because his frustration mounts. He rushes over to him, gets up in his face, hands either side of Ste's arms on the sink.

Ste can smell his breath.

"I said you don't have a choice."

"Kill me then." He doesn't mean it. He doesn't think he does. But the bluff seems to work; Warren stops, disarmed.

"You've done it before. You killed that rotter."

"That _rabid_ , you mean. It was out of control, it wasn't - it wasn't walking around like..."

"Like what?"

"Like a human," Ste says, almost shouting now. "What's Brendan even done to you? Who cares if the rotter's broken some rules? It was wearing the contacts and the mousse at the meeting. It's playing along for now, so why is it so important to you that it's gone?"

"It's not..." Warren stumbles, sweat on his brow. "It's not up to me."

"What do you mean?"

He doesn't speak.

"Warren. What are you talking about? Is someone making you -"

"No one's making me do anything." He's angry again now, animated. "You think someone's going to tell me what to do?"

Ste doesn't buy it. Underneath the fury there's a kind of fear there, rippling out.

"I need Brady gone. If you don't do it then -"

"Are you going to be the one to do it then? Are you going to kill me? Are you going to be the one to deal with Amy on your back, and seeing the kids' faces when they find out I'm gone?"

He puts a conviction behind his words that he doesn't entirely feel. It torments him sometimes, the idea that his family would be better off without him. If he wasn't around then Amy would have no one accusing her. _It's your fault for believing me_ ; those had been his last words to her this morning.

He feels bile rise in his throat.

He doesn't expect it to work. He didn't even think that Warren had a conscience to press against. But the fire has left his eyes. He moves away, gives Ste some breathing space, slumping next to him instead.

"Why can't you kill Brendan?"

"I can't let it trace back to me."

"But it's alright if I get done for it?" Ste snorts. "Thanks."

"I'll pay you for it." Warren turns to him, hopeful again. "If it's money you want -"

"I'm not taking your money."

"Come on, Ste. Your kids look like they could use it."

"Little tip: if you're trying to convince me to do something, leave my kids out of it."

Under ordinary circumstances, Ste would be tempted by the offer of money. But he knows Warren will only be able to offer him a couple of thousand at the most, and it's the kind of cash that'll disappear as quickly as he gets it.

He's never been one to weigh up the pros and cons, but he already knows that this isn't worth it.

"I'll leave you alone. Forever."

He's too stunned to say anything.

"You do this, and you're free."

"What do you mean, free?" The word sounds foreign on his tongue: _free_. He hasn't felt free in years.

"You want out, don't you? It's obvious that you're miserable."

Ste doesn't attempt to deny it, just like he hasn't tried to convince the group of anything otherwise in the last few months. They've all sensed it, and he's been aware of the shift in opinion towards him; they've gone from thinking he's an incompetent risk to thinking that he's a _pointless_ incompetent risk, one who's only there to make up the numbers, not because he wants to be. Even killing the rabid single-handedly hadn't changed that.

"And you'd do that, would you? You'd just let me go?" Everything inside him is screaming out, begging him not to trust Warren. "No, you'd find a way."

"A way to what?"

"To ruin things for me. When I apply for new jobs you'll -"

"I'll let you do it." Warren looks at him. Ste can't see any deceit there, but then he's not entirely sure he sees sincerity either. He doesn't know what that looks like on this man. "I swear to you. I won't stand in your way. You'll be done with us all. You won't ever have to speak to me again if you don't want to."

"No, you wouldn't..." There's got to be a catch.

"Think about it. You can start again, have a different life for yourself."

"How do I know you're telling me the truth? I could agree and then you could take it all back." Not that he is agreeing; that's not what's going on here.

"We'll sign a contract. Make it official."

Ste laughs. "A contract? What's it going to be, written in crayon? Have a small print a thousand pages long?"

"It'll be legit, I swear."

Ste stands upright. Warren makes no move to stop him when he heads towards the door.

"Forget it. Get someone else to do your dirty work. I'm not a killer."

"Brendan's not alive, remember? You're just putting that thing back where it belongs."

"I said forget it."

"Bit dangerous, don't you think? Speaking to me like that." There's an edge to Warren's voice, and Ste's once again reminded of the bulk of him. He could crush him without much effort.

"I'll take my chances." It's a risk, but one he's willing to take - for now. He's not sure Warren's yet crossed into the territory of threatening Amy and the kids. As long as they're safe, then Ste can hold his own. "See you for patrol."

He leaves the pub, can feel the eyes of the other group members on him as the door swings shut behind him.

::::::

"Kids in bed?"

There's a pause like Amy doesn't know whether to lie to him or not.

"I'm not going to..." He wonders whether her mind's gone there too: past arguments. Times when she thought the kids would hear him shouting. "I wasn't..."

"I know. I know you weren't."

Maybe coming back was a bad idea. He hasn't allowed time for the dust to settle; not really, not enough for her to forgive him.

He's about to give her space when she pulls out the chair beside her, the legs lightly scraping along the floor. She looks at him, nods to the empty seat when he doesn't make a move.

"Ta." He sits, plays with his hands, watches out of the corner of his eye as she plays with hers. She bites her nails like he does.

"I'm sorry about before." It's a relief when he says it; he's sure he can actually see her release a breath, some of the tension leaving her body.

"I'm sorry too."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about. The way I've been acting lately..." He hopes it's just lately. He hopes this isn't how it's been for years and he's just been too wrapped up in himself to realise it. He hopes this isn't her normal, that she hasn't grown accustomed. "I never should have asked about Jacqui. You can talk to anyone you want. I was just... I thought..."

"You don't want someone like that around me. Around the kids." It's not a question, but he answers it anyway. Gives a soft _no_ , because she'd see through his lies with any other answer.

"I meant it when I said I bumped into her."

"Right."

"Not literally, but... I was out with the kids, and they dropped something. Some toy, or... I can't even remember."

He resists asking her whether she can't remember because it happened weeks ago - months, even - and she's kept it a secret from him all this time.

"We just got talking."

 _How do you get talking to someone like that?_ Again he stays silent, listens. One wrong move and it might be days before she forgives him enough to be this civil.

"She told me she was looking for work."

 _It_ , he thinks. _It told me it was looking for work_. He has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from correcting her.

"Told me that it's been hard lately, you know, not getting any work because of...what she is. I know because of Sarah."

Ste remembers hearing about how many job interviews Amy's sister had been to in the past year: one, and that's only because Sarah had lied on her application form, not disclosed what she is. When she'd gone to the interview and they'd seen her she'd been told to leave.

"Ames, I didn't tell you, but that meeting I had with Warren -"

"He's giving them work. I know. Gossip travels fast around here, remember? Everyone knows. But you and me, we're not everyone, are we? We're not going to believe that Warren actually wants to help people. So if you're going to try and convince me that he's doing a good thing -"

"I'm not." He was going to, but he's not now. He slumps in his seat, deflated. "He's just doing it to look good."

"Sums him up really, doesn't it? That's why... Ste, you're not going to like this, but..."

"What?" He's not sure he can deal with more things he's not going to like. "What is it?"

"I offered Jacqui a job."

"You what?"

She has the good sense to look guilty, whether she feels it or not.

"I did it earlier."

"After our fight then? Did you do it to get back at me? And what do you mean, you offered her a job? How the hell -"

"Yes, it was after our fight. But that's not why I did it. Look, when I met her we got talking, and she found out that I'm not working at the moment."

"She found out? She didn't find out, Amy. You told her!"

"I told her then." She raises her voice, puts on her _don't you talk to me like that_ tone. Ste concentrates hard on keeping calm; becomes aware of his breathing, how erratic it sounds, and attempts to regulate it. "She told me that she used to look after her sisters when she was younger. Used to do all the babysitting apparently, because her mum wasn't around that much according to her."

"No." Ste shakes his head, knows exactly where this is going now. "No way. No. She's... that thing is not looking after our kids."

"Yes she is."

"Amy -"

"Listen. Listen to me, okay? I want to go back to work. Lucas is old enough now, and we can't expect my dad to come over from Manchester every time we need a babysitter. He has Sarah to think about even if he was willing."

"I'm making enough. If it's money you're worried about, we're doing okay."

"I'm not worried about money. I'm worried about you."

"What do you mean?" There's a tremble in his voice.

"You, and those... those idiots in that group."

"Don't call them that." He doesn't know why he's defending them. She's right - they _are_ idiots.

"They're brainwashing you."

He laughs at that; it's shaky, too loud, too much. " _Brainwashing_? Come on, Ames. That's... That's not true."

"Isn't it? I see you with them. I see you around them, the way you act."

"What? When?" He's always been careful to keep that part of his life distant. He never brings any HVF members to the flat. He's never seen Amy at the pub when they hold meetings. He hasn't been aware of her ever seeing him on patrol.

"Just out in the village."

"When?" He's been so _careful_.

"It doesn't matter when. The point is, I see it. You're not the same."

Shame courses through him.

"You know how it is, when you're with a group. It's... That's not who I am, Amy. I have to be like that at work. If I wasn't then..." He's not sure he'd survive.

"It's not just when you're at work though." She's talking softly, and he's starting to think it's not just for the kids' benefit. The way she's being with him, tentative like she needs to tread carefully - it breaks his heart.

"I'm not like that here, am I?" He swallows a lump in his throat, his mind going into overdrive, desperately trying to recall possible times when he's let his two worlds collide. He's tried, he's tried so hard to be what she needs him to be.

"Sometimes."

She's going easy on him, he thinks. The way she's looking at him, it's with something like pity in her eyes, knowing what her words are doing to him.

"Tell me," he says, because he doesn't want her pity, not now, not ever. "Tell me straight." He'd rather know than dwell on it, letting it fester until it turns into something worse.

Amy takes a breath, prepares herself.

"The way you talk about..." She's choosing her words carefully, going over them in her head before she speaks. "About them all. The...partially deceased..."

Ste resists correcting her again: _the rotters._

"It's like you believe everything that Warren's told you."

"No." He shakes his head, wants to say so much more, but she's stopping him, and he senses that she needs to get this out.

"I understand why." She reaches out, puts a hand over his, smooths her thumb along his skin like she's trying to soothe him, calm him down. "You've been around them for so long. Of course you'd feel that way."

 _I don't._ He wants to shout it out, _I don't,_ but he can't speak.

"Maybe I'd think the same, if I hadn't... If what happened with Sarah had never happened."

"Ames, it's... It's not the same. I don't... Sarah's different."

"How is she different?"

It feels like an attack, like he's being cross examined, but Ste knows she's genuinely curious. He wishes she wasn't; he's not sure if he even knows how to begin to answer.

He tries. Tries to rearrange the thoughts in his head, organise the jumbled mess that's making him panic and want to jump out of his own skin. He fidgets in the chair; takes his hand away from Amy's for a moment, then back again because the loss of contact makes it harder to breathe.

"Because she's your sister. You grew up with her."

"People grew up with Jacqui. I told you, she has sisters, she -"

"Amy."

"It's true though. She was human once, Ste. She still is."

"She's not. None of them are."

It's Amy who pulls away this time, her hand trailing away from him on the table. Ste sees the hurt in her eyes before she can disguise it.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did." The wall's back up; her eyes are blank, hard. "If Sarah wasn't my sister then you'd think the same thing. You probably already do, don't you? That her existence is worthless, that she should be gone for good."

"No." He's losing her. He can already see her detaching herself.

She stands up. "I'm going to bed."

"Please don't."

"I'm tired. It's been a long day."

"Amy, don't."

He thinks she's going to leave it at that, but before she leaves the kitchen she turns to him. Her eyes are red.

"I'm going to take Jacqui up on her offer. Whether you quit the HVF or not, I'm going to give her this job. She deserves it, Ste. She deserves more than being Warren's puppet."

He gets to his feet, words falling from his lips frantically.

"I'm going to quit. I am."

Amy laughs, shakes her head at him. "I've heard it all before, haven't I?"

"I mean it. I'm going to do it."

She looks at the floor. She isn't believing him.

He moves closer, tries to get her to look at him but she's avoiding his gaze, looking anywhere else.

"Please." He puts a hand under her chin, and finally she meets his eyes. "Believe me."

"What's different about this time?"

"Because... I don't like who I am any more." His breath sounds like a sob, rattling and too loud for the quiet of the kitchen.

He's never admitted that out loud before. Even when he was at his worst, when he hated himself the most, he's never said it.

"You're still a good man. That's not what I'm saying."

"Am I?"

"Yes." If she's lying then she's convincing; he can feel her belief in him. It's shaky but it's there.

"But I'm not acting like one, am I? I mean it, I want to change. I don't want to do this work any more. I don't want to be around those people."

There's a spark of hope in Amy's eyes, but it disappears.

"Warren will never let you leave. You said it yourself, it's not that easy."

"Forget about Warren."

She frowns at him. "Forget? How can I? You don't think he'll just let you walk away?"

"I've made a deal with him."

Perhaps _deal_ wasn't the word he should have used. He knows what Amy's imagining: something illegal, something that could get him into trouble.

He's not entirely sure if she's wrong.

"Don't worry. It's nothing, okay? It's going to be alright. I just need to do one thing for him, and then he'll let me go."

"We're both talking about the same Warren here, right? Because the Warren Fox I know wouldn't ever let it be that simple."

"Don't you trust me?"

There's a moment's hesitation where Ste's sure he won't get the answer he wants.

"Yes. Yes, I trust you. Just... tell me. No secrets, okay? Tell me what he wants you to do."

"Amy, I..." _I can't._

"I'm not going to agree to anything if you don't tell me."

"You're so stubborn, you know that?"

She laughs, and so does he; they need it, he thinks, otherwise they'll both scream.

He hopes it's enough of a distraction, but she's smart, this girl. She won't be silenced like that.

"Tell me."

The words slip out of his mouth easily, as though telling lies is all he's ever known.

"He wants me to kill a rabid."

He registers the surprise in Amy's expression. She frowns, and there's a note of relief in her voice when she speaks.

"A rabid?"

"Yeah."

"Can't they give them Neurotryptiline? There must be something -"

"It's too late. They think the thing's too dangerous, that it'll just do the same thing all over again."

"Have they killed someone?" She lowers her voice, won't want to risk the kids overhearing them.

Ste nods. "I can't really say too much about it. Work stuff, you know...and I don't want you involved anyway. But... it's for the best."

She's still not buying it.

"Why you? Warren's used to dealing with rabids. Why isn't he handling it, or the rest of the HVF?"

"Ames, I can't really..." He trails off, reluctant to give the honest answer: that he doesn't want her to ask these questions, because he can't think of something convincing enough as a cover.

"I know, I know. Sorry. But Ste - this isn't anything serious, is it? I don't want you getting hurt."

"It'll be simple, I promise. I'll just shoot the rabid and then..." He swallows thickly, tries not to let himself imagine it. "It'll be over quickly. And then I'll be free. _We'll_ be free."

She hugs him; wraps him in her arms and he forces himself to believe that it'll be okay, that in the near darkness of the kitchen and with the feel of Amy's arms around him he can do anything, be anything. That what he has to do will be something methodical: he shoots. He kills. It's over.

It'll all be over.

When Amy lets go they whisper their goodnights, and Ste feels more warmth from her than he has done in months. She smiles at him before she goes into her bedroom.

"Ste?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm so proud of you."

He smiles back at her, holding it until she can no longer see him.

He goes into his room and closes the door carefully. He gets out his phone, dials the number and waits.

Warren picks up at the tenth ring - he counts them, does it to fool himself that it'll help to keep him calm, a distraction - just when Ste's about to give up, secretly glad that the conversation's been put off.

"It's me. Look, about what we talked about before..." He chews at his lower lip, closes his eyes and screws them shut until they hurt. "I'll do it."


	6. Chapter 6

A pattern's developing.

He goes to meetings, goes on patrol, comes home just in time to say goodnight to the kids and read them a story. If he has any energy left then he'll eat some dinner. If not then he'll ignore the ache in his stomach, going straight to bed where he'll spend hours trying to fall asleep, then resort to staring at the ceiling when he can't. He can just about make out the cracks in the paint in the darkness, and on the days that he can't he'll imagine them in his head instead, hoping that it'll be like counting sheep, that his mind will eventually settle.

There are dark circles gathering under his eyes. His body feels heavy to carry around, as though his bones suddenly weigh more. It's not going unnoticed; he sees Amy looking at him when she thinks he can't see, and when he meets her gaze she quickly turns away, her frown smoothing away, pretending to be occupied by something else.

He reminds himself that it won't be for much longer. As soon as he kills the rotter then this will all be over, and he'll be able to forget that the Human Volunteer Force ever existed. Maybe he'll even find a job outside of Chester, and he and Amy and the kids will be able to move. Somewhere close to Manchester so she can still see Mike and Sarah regularly, but far enough from here so that he never has to bump into anyone again. He wants to go somewhere where no one knows him, where no one's ever witnessed his humiliation.

And there's been humiliation this week - a lot of it.

He's sure the group of rotters he's been put in charge of think he's an incompetent idiot. Ste had been afraid that he'd never understand what it was he was meant to he doing with them - he put the blame at Brendan's door for taking and then destroying his instructions - but Warren had started out the following meeting with them all gathered in the village hall again, directing each group.

Ste had got the short straw. Some of the other HVF had at least had some semblance of excitement in their tasks. A few of them got to shadow a chef in a nearby restaurant before being on kitchen duty, but Ste's task was the most basic he could be given. Picking up rubbish. Dropping rubbish in bin. Repeat until you go insane or are ready to claw your eyes out; whichever comes first.

It wasn't just the job: it was the rotters. He was sure he'd been assigned the worst group. None of them paid attention to him, even though he had a gun in his back pocket, more a statement than something he needed. Jacqui McQueen turned up late everyday. Ste could hear the rotter approaching by the sound of its PVC boots clip clopping along the pavement. Jacqui wore so much make up that Ste didn't know where the cover up mousse ended and the foundation began, and the rotter's earrings seemed to grow larger by the day.

Rhys Ashworth was another one that Ste had to keep an eye on. The rotter had been more or less easy to deal with at first, until something happened that Ste hadn't factored into the equation: Rhys fell for McQueen.

The rotter laughed a little too loudly around Jacqui; tripped over because he was looking for too long, teased Jacqui relentlessly. Typical playground stuff, down to them pinching each other and _giggling_.

He could just about deal with the nauseating display unfolding in front of him if it wasn't for the way the two of them had started ganging up on him. Jacqui's instant dislike of him seemed to have spread, and by the end of the first week of working together, Ste was the target of Rhys's punchlines.

After enduring a particularly long day involving Rhys and Jacqui sticking leaves in his uniform, he's had enough. He heads straight for Frankie when he enters The Dog, orders a beer.

"Keep them coming, yeah?"

He ignores the look she gives him, downing the first pint as quickly as possible. He's aware after a few minutes of someone standing behind him, but he carries on drinking.

The stool behind him is dragged backwards. Warren doesn't look at him as he sits down, but Ste can feel the anger radiating from him; it's something he's learnt to be aware of after all these years.

"Take it easy." It's an instruction rather than a suggestion.

Ste takes the next pint that Frankie pours him. His fourth, he thinks, although the number's starting to become muddled in his mind.

"No more," Warren says, and Ste realises he's talking to Frankie.

"You can't do that." Ste looks at Frankie, sees her staring between the two of them wearily.

"Don't forget who's paying you, Ste."

Later he'll think of something good to say; a retort that'll leave Warren speechless and make him understand that he can't throw his weight around like that.

Later. But for now, Ste stays quiet and drinks.

"What's wrong? Bad day at the office?"

" _The office_." Some of Ste's pint sloshes over the edge of the glass when he slams it on the table. "You've got me cleaning up litter."

"I never promised glamour."

"I thought it would be over. I thought when I agreed to -"

"Shut up." Warren's voice cuts through, sharp and cold, and he shoots Ste a warning look. Ste's aware of Frankie serving in front of them; he knows he's being loud enough for her to still be able to hear him.

"When I agreed to...what I'm going to do. I thought that would be it."

"It will be it."

"Then what's taking so long?" He says, frustration clawing at him. "You want Brendan gone, so let's do it."

"Keep your voice down."

"Just tell me. Tell me why we're not doing it right now. Because I'm ready. I can go and do it this second."

"This second?" Warren huffs a laugh. "Really? You're ready, are you?"

"Yes."

"So you want to go to the rotter's house, gun it down, clean up the body?"

"Yeah."

 _Gun it down. Clean up the body._

"And you don't think that will look at all suspicious?"

Ste frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Brady's been involved in this work scheme a week now. Bit weird, don't you think, that he gets involved with us and all of a sudden he turns up dead. Or - deader. Whatever."

Ste had tried not to think about the idea of someone digging around, wanting to find out about Brendan being gone. He'd pushed it from his mind, the idea that the rotter had anyone left who cared about it. He'd never met Cheryl, and that lack of knowledge about what she was like made him feel distanced from it, as though she wasn't entirely real. She was Brendan's sister, but right now that was all she was. It was a label, a tag, _sister_. Ste had made up his own version of her; someone who struggled to love anyone or anything, someone who was hard and unforgiving. Perhaps she had an uneasy relationship with Brendan. Perhaps she'd never wanted the rotter to come back in The Rising, and her allowing Brendan to stay with her in the village was a temporary thing. Or - and Ste preferred this version better - Brendan had lied about the entire thing, and Cheryl didn't exist. Or if she did then maybe she wasn't living here, and had cut Brendan out of her life years ago.

The story gave him some satisfaction, however small, and he was reluctant to let it go.

Brendan hadn't mentioned any friends. Ste couldn't imagine someone like that having any. He'd only been left alone with Brendan for an hour, but in the short time they'd spent together he'd seen how easy it was to get intimidated by the rotter. Ste couldn't identify what it was. Brendan had been aggressive, but it wasn't the worst case Ste had ever seen. Brendan's bare face and undisguised eyes had been a shock, but still nothing new; Ste had killed the rabid less than a month ago.

It comes to him then, sitting in the pub with Warren, pint in his hand, jacket still on to try to stop himself from shaking. It was the rotter's intelligence. He hadn't expected it. Brendan had been one step ahead of him, ready with a quick reply - nearly always scathing - and Ste hadn't seen anything like it from one of them before. Jacqui was always ready with a mouthy comeback too, but even that wasn't as challenging as Brendan had been, and Ste was sure that McQueen wouldn't dare attack him the way Brendan had.

He could assume that it was only the way Brendan reacted around humans, but it had been there during the first meeting too; the strange way that Brendan had seemed separate from everyone else. The rotter had been surrounded by its own kind, but Ste could see the way it kept to itself. Whether it was slouching away from the people next to it, or making a joke at their expense, Brendan had been different. There had been a sense of unity among the rotters that day, a kind of _it's us against them_ mentality, but Brendan hadn't been included in the _us_.

The rotter had seemed alone. Not a part of whatever it was the rest of them were apart of.

It would make it easier; less people to miss Brendan when Ste did what he had to do.

"We can say it was an accident."

Warren looks at him. "Wow, you've _definitely_ never done this before, have you? The police will look into it if it looks like anything dodgy's going on."

Ste puts his head in his hands, drink forgotten. He's starting to regret having had so much. His head's already beginning to pound.

"I didn't expect all of this." He has his eyes shut, his voice muffled.

"Thought it would be easy, did you?" There's a mocking edge to Warren's voice. Ste doesn't think he's ever hated him more.

"What are we going to do then?" He's tired of second guessing, of trying to form his own plan when everything he thinks and does and says seems to be wrong.

"Give it a little longer. Give Brady enough time to fuck things up."

Ste opens his eyes.

"What do you think Brendan's going to do?"

"That thing will do our work for us. Trust me." Warren sees Ste raise his eyebrows. "Okay, so don't trust me. But I'm telling you, Brady will start causing enough problems for it to seem like getting rid is the better option."

"You've lost me. So you want people to think we killed -"

Warren looks away, makes sure that Frankie's busy with customers before talking again.

"A guy like Brady - a _thing_ like him - it's not going to keep its head down, stay quiet."

"How do you know? Do you know Brendan? Before all this, I mean."

"I know that thing's type. Tony's told me that Brady's already been causing problems. Turning up late for work, talking back."

"People in my group have been doing that too."

"They also been conveniently forgetting to put on their cover up mousse?"

"It happened again?"

"Tony refused to pay the rotter unless it put it on. That soon shut it up. But it's a loose canon. Only a matter of time before it explodes. The council will be begging us to sort it out."

"I don't think their idea of sorting it out is killing it."

Warren shoots him a look. "You have an answer for everything these days, don't you?"

"I told you, I just want this to be done."

"And it will be. Just give it a few months."

"Months?" The word seems to echo around the pub. Ste's sure they've begun to attract attention. "I'm not waiting months for -"

He stops speaking, voice curling into a cry of pain. Warren has his hand on his arm, concealing it underneath the bar as he twists it, his grip vice like.

Ste can do little more than gasp.

"Remember that I'm doing you a favour here. You're getting off very lightly."

He lets Ste go, leaves him clutching his arm, mouth open as the pain continues to sear through him.

He must have not perfected his poker face, because Frankie does a double take when Warren's gone.

"Are you okay? You've gone white as a ghost."

"I'm fine." The answer comes out more defensive than he means it to, and her warmth vanishes. She moves as far away as possible from him, down to the other end of the bar.

He's managing to alienate even the people who don't think he's nothing.

He pays for his drinks, noting the way that Frankie stares at him in disapproval at the amount of pints he's ordered as she cleans up the glasses. He can practically hear what she's thinking. _Useless drunk. Meant to be protecting us all but he's drinking on the job._

He has a couple of hours before he's meant to be on patrol. He walks home, with it taking a conscious effort to go in a straight line. He's seen Warren drink more than double what he just had, and this didn't happen to him. He knows it's because he's skinny. He's tried everything; he'd even started going to the gym last year, albeit only for a few months before he'd abandoned the attempt when he'd seen Darren in the changing rooms. He hadn't wanted to risk anyone seeing him and laughing. Nothing seemed to work.

After a few attempts to get the key in the lock, he enters the flat. Amy must have been in a rush this morning. The ironing board's still out, the dirty dishes lying in a pile in the sink.

He gets to work on it all, cleaning every surface. He never used to like doing it, but he's liking it now, the distraction, the task giving him something to concentrate on.

He wonders if Brendan ever does things like this. The rotter must, mustn't it, unless its sister does it all.

He turns the radio up loud. The effects of the pints are already wearing off faster than he'd like.

When he's tidied everything, the thought creeps up on him slowly. It's been days since he's had time to properly look online. He's barely even thought about it until now, but now that he's remembered he can't not think about it.

He grabs his laptop and goes into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He's not sure why he does it; no one's home, and he has nothing to hide. But something makes him do it, makes him climb onto his bed, eyes flicking to the door like he's about to be interrupted at any moment, found to be doing something he shouldn't be.

There's nothing wrong with what he's doing though, is there?

He makes sure the laptop screen's facing away from the door, just in case.

He's had four messages since he last checked the website. He almost thinks he's imagining things, but the messages are in his inbox plain as day.

Four girls. All pretty, all starting with a simple message: _Hi, how are you?_ Or _Your profile sounds interesting._

Ste checks their profiles. One of the girls is a little too far away - he'd have to get at least two trains to see her - but the others live only a few miles away. They seem nice, the kind of girls that he would have chatted up a few years ago.

All he has to do is send a message back. There's not the worry of rejection, at least not yet. Not the worry that they won't reply, because they've sought him out. They won't have changed their minds in the past couple of days, will they? They wouldn't be that fickle. They must have seen something they like. They must have looked at his photo and checked his profile and chose not to ignore him. That means something.

He doesn't know why he's finding it so difficult.

He tells himself he'll give it a little while, maybe half an hour, and then he'll reply. Long enough that he'll be able to think of a good response, but not too long so that they'll have already moved on to someone else.

He decides he'll check the competition while he's making up his mind. He goes to his profile, changes the settings. _Interested in men and women._

There's a thin trail of sweat developing from his neck to his back.

He doesn't know why these girls have chosen him. His picture pales in comparison to some of these other guys. Their profiles are better written. Some of them even make Ste laugh, and then he thinks of what he's written about himself; it seems even more dull now, something you'd click past after reading the first sentence.

Most of them are gay, but some have bisexual in their profile. It shocks Ste, the amount of them that identify as that. He hadn't been aware that it was this common; he'd thought there would only be one, maybe two. He counts at least twenty until he stops.

They don't seem ashamed, these men. They don't seem like they're trying to hide it.

Ste closes the screen, sinks back onto the bed.

He hadn't come across Callum's profile again. Maybe he's deleted it, has already found someone so he's decided not to be on the site any more. Ste wouldn't be surprised. He was good looking, wasn't he, so it's no great shock that people would contact him, be interested.

Ste's still got his profile page saved on his computer.

He opens the screen again, goes to where he has it saved. He only intends to drag the file to the trash and get rid of it, but somehow he ends up clicking on it and opening it. He looks away for a moment, not wanting to look, not wanting to see _profile deleted_ or a blank page.

It's still there. Callum's still there.

He's added new photos. Some with his friends, and some shots of just him. There are a few that must have been taken with the people he works with too, because they're all in yellow shirts - builder's shirts, Ste assumes.

He must get loads of messages, loads of people trying to get to know him better.

Ste kneels on the bed. All that seems to dominate his vision is the reply button.

He's not slept with anyone since Rae. Maybe that's why he's feeling like this, feeling _weird_ , because it's been a while. He's out of practice, and he's not used to it. He went from Amy to Rae with little space in between; a few months, maybe, but he wasn't even thinking about sex then. The kids were young, and he had them to think about, as well as repairing his relationship with Amy. But now there's no distraction of a girlfriend, and things are steady with Leah and Lucas. He knows the routine that comes with having kids now, knows how to cope with it all.

That must be why he's thinking about these things. He just needs to get back into it all, find a new girlfriend, and then all these other things, these thoughts, they'll stop.

It doesn't take him long to find Veronica's profile, the girl who he'd first noticed more than a week ago.

He takes his time over the message, writing it out in a separate word document first. He spell checks it and goes over it in his head, sounds out the words and make sure that it all makes sense. He goes through six drafts until he settles on something.

 _Hi. Thought your profile looked good. Let me know if you want to chat._

He's still not entirely happy with it when he sends it, but it's done now. A part of him feels disappointed when he doesn't hear back within the next half an hour, but he reminds himself that some people actually have lives. They might not be sitting waiting for a response like he is.

He forces himself to stop looking and starts changing into his uniform, getting ready for tonight's patrol.

::::::

"Am I still in the doghouse?"

Tony's voice sounds loud in the stillness of the night.

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't said a word to me tonight."

"Yes I did. I said..." Ste strains to remember. "Hi."

Tony laughs. "Forget what I said then. We're really making progress."

"What do you expect me to say? You were the one who said you wanted to keep your distance." He'd had a sinking feeling when Warren had assigned them together for the patrol, particularly as they're walking down a deserted road where the only thing they can currently hear is each other.

Luck isn't on Ste's side.

"I'm sorry. I was wrong to say what I did. I thought maybe it would make everything easier."

It's Ste's turn to laugh. He stops walking, stares at Tony incredulously.

"How was it ever going to make it easier?"

"What Warren's asked you to do... I thought maybe if you felt more confident in your own decisions, and if you didn't have me to run to..."

"I don't _run_ to you." Insulted, he carries on walking, faster this time. "And I am confident in my own decisions. You don't have to worry about me." He really wishes that his voice hadn't decided to shake at that exact moment.

"You know I don't condone this, don't you? What Warren's doing."

Ste shrugs, staring straight ahead. "It's not a big deal."

"Ste, he's asking you to -"

"It's just a rotter. Like Warren said, I'm just putting it back where it belongs. Brendan isn't even meant to be alive. He... _it_ died. That's how things were supposed to stay. If it wasn't for The Rising then all of them would have stayed gone."

He tries not to think of Amy, of the state she'd been in after Sarah's death.

"I've got to say, I won't be sad to see Brendan go." Tony tries to keep pace with him, voice slightly breathless now.

"Yeah?"

"That thing's a bloody headache. Won't stop answering back every second of every day. Insists on calling me Anthony, and it - what? Why are you smiling?"

"I'm not."

"Yes you -"

"What else does Brendan do?"

"Pisses off everyone in the group. They can barely stand to be around it. I'm not saying this situation is ideal, but if you're going to kill one of them then let's just thank God it's that one, eh?"

Ste nods, is quiet for a moment.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

They turn the corner. One of the streetlights has burst, and for a moment they're plunged into complete darkness.

"Do you know what Brendan died from?''

"Not exactly something you make small talk about, is it?"

"No. I guess not." He hasn't asked any of his group what happened to them, and none of them have volunteered the information. Ste doesn't think he'd particularly enjoy talking about his own death either.

"You want my advice?"

"Not really, mate."

"Don't get to know anything. If you find out about the rotter's death then you'll find out about its life, and that's going down a path that you really don't want to go down. Steer clear, yeah?"

"Come on, you think that's going to happen? All Brendan's done since we met is been a bastard."

Tony shrugs his shoulders. "You never know."

"I already know about its sister, and that hasn't... It's not made me not want to do this."

"What about the rotter though? What if you start finding out things about it? Not about its sister. Just, you know, Brendan."

Ste kicks an empty water bottle across the street. It's comforting to hear the sound of it, the rattling noise as it rolls away.

"It's like you said. I won't be sad to see Brendan go."

::::::

They're about to call it a night when they get the phone call. Ste can tell from Darren's voice that something's wrong.

"How quickly can you be here?"

The line's breaking up and Ste's straining to hear him; he puts the phone closer to his ear, holding up a hand to stop Tony from interrupting.

"Where are you?"

"The treatment centre."

"What are you -"

"Ste, how quickly? Warren wants you both here now."

He tries to work out the distance. They've moved further away from the centre of the village, and the darkness makes him feel like they're even more cut off.

"We'll set off now. See you in a bit."

When he hangs up he and Tony both start walking - Tony's got the message, clearly - and soon they begin to break into a run. Tony avoids asking him any questions. He must know that they can't afford to lose time, and it's in Ste's head, the urgency of Darren's voice and the unexpectedness of the call. _Warren wants you both here now._

Brendan.

It's the first thing that comes into his head. Warren must have changed his mind and decided that the plan should be put into action sooner. Perhaps the entire group have cornered the rotter and locked it in the treatment centre, or Warren's prediction came true and Brendan's done the hard work for them, causing enough disruption to make this the only option.

This is it. He runs faster, images filling his mind: Brendan in the cage again. The HVF leaving him alone - no friends, no security, no one to help him, only the protection of his gun. Ste reaches for it as he gathers pace, making sure that it's still in his pocket.

A painless death. That's what it'll be. The rotter won't even feel it; if it does then it'll only last a split second, and then it will be gone.

It's almost a shock when they reach the treatment centre. Ste looks carefully to make sure, certain that they've taken a wrong turn and it's another building that they're standing in front of.

He stops. It's only for a second, but it's enough for Tony to notice and halt his own movements.

"What are you doing?" There's a note of exasperation in his voice that changes to concern when Ste doesn't reply. "Are you alright?"

He's going to be sick.

He's about to tell Tony this when there's a breeze that makes goosebumps form along the length of Ste's arms. The sudden feel of the cold air only add to his nausea. He's sure that he's turned pale, but the lack of light hides it, and when he nods Tony seems to accept his reassurance. They walk into the treatment centre, the lights dimmed to reflect the lateness of the hour.

He can hear voices coming from one of the rooms. At first Ste isn't entirely sure if they're human voices, and his footsteps along the corridor are stilted, his breathing ragged from the exertion and the panic. He stands back a little when they near the door, Tony taking his cue and being the one to open it.

They're all in there, the entire group, crammed into the small room. Ste's about to say something when Warren stops him, nodding his head sharply to indicate that they have company. Ste hadn't even noticed the doctor standing in the corner, tiny compared to the men surrounding her.

She must notice the silence that's spread throughout the room, because she quickly excuses herself and closes the door behind her. Ste can't help but notice that she looks thoroughly relieved at the opportunity to make a swift exit.

"What's going on?"

Ste tries to look behind the men, towards the cage that they're covering. They must be keeping Brendan inside - sedated, surely, because Ste can't imagine the rotter staying quiet when facing its own death. Brendan would be fighting.

"You took your time, didn't you? We've been waiting ages." There's a certain satisfaction to Warren's words, like he's pleased to have something new to use against him.

"We ran the whole way here."

"Didn't run fast enough, did you?"

Ste ignores the remark. "What's happening?"

"We caught a rabid."

Ste frowns. _Caught a rabid._ It doesn't sound right. Unless Brendan's taken Blue Oblivion, and unless Warren's being purposefully ambiguous, not wanting the others to know just how well acquainted Ste is with this particular rabid already.

But then he moves. He steps forward and Ste can see the cage properly for the first time.

There's no Brendan. There's nothing.

"Looking for something?" Warren cranes his neck, following Ste's line of sight.

"I thought..." He doesn't know what to feel. He was sure this was it. "I don't understand."

"We came across the thing on patrol."

Ste's about to ask who - or _what_ \- when he hears a loud banging noise. He jumps, Tony doing the same beside him as they both try to locate the source of the noise. It doesn't lessen; there's more banging, and then the unmistakable sound of a growl and dragging feet.

It's nothing that Ste hasn't heard before, but it's the sudden eruption of noise that alarms him.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Warren steps forward, past them both, and opens the door.

The noise intensifies, coming closer and closer, and then Ste sees it: two doctors in uniform, dragging a rabid along the hallway towards one of the treatment rooms. They've got a muzzle around it, but it doesn't stop Ste from seeing the saliva that's coming from its mouth, nor the way its eyes are blackened at the pupil. It's as though it's lost all control of its body, shaking violently and trying to free itself.

Ste reels back when it gets nearer to the door, the rabid bearing its teeth at him. It looks young from what Ste can see, maybe younger than him, although it's hard to determine its age when its face is so contorted.

He watches as it's led further away and into a separate room, the noise only growing softer when the door's slammed shut.

Ste turns back to face the group, his mouth dry.

"Blue Oblivion?"

Warren shakes his head. "The tests have been done on its body. No traces have been found."

"But that's..." He's never seen anything like that without Blue Oblivion being involved. The only time he can remember is during The Rising.

Fear grips him. It can't be.

"A Second Rising?"

There's silence, and then a splutter of laughter.

"You're a real fantasist, you know that Ratboy?"

"What is it then? Go on, just tell me." He's losing his patience. He knows this pattern all too well: He suggests something, Warren laughs at him, and the rest of the group think he's some sort of entertainment, a spectacle to provide them with endless amusement.

"Think about it. Less of your wild fantasies, and more...traditional methods of losing control." Warren and the others smile like they're all in on some private joke.

"What do you mean? I don't understand."

"He's on drugs, Ste."

"Drugs? What do you... You mean Neurotryptiline?"

They all seem to turn to stare at him at once.

"Does this look like someone on Neurotryptiline?" Warren says. He shakes his head like he's shaking away an irritant.

Ste turns red. He hates it, hates that Warren can make him feel so fucking _stupid_.

He tries to think rationally, not make another remark that'll show him up.

"Are you sure about Blue Oblivion? Maybe they did the tests wrong. That can happen, can't it?" It's the only thing he can think of, and it seems to match. The foaming at the mouth, the wild eyes, the aggression. The complete lack of control.

"It's not Blue Oblivion. Just plain old class A."

"What?"

"Haven't ever heard of that? Need me to explain?'"

The group laugh openly again, a light ripple spreading through the room.

"No." He waits for the laughter to die down. It takes a while. "When's the last time you saw someone on drugs though? It's been ages, hasn't it."

He can't even remember the last time he heard about a drug related incident in these parts. The main priority for people has been to stay alive and not be attacked by a stray rabid. Drugs belong in a different world.

"Wait," he says, animated now, sure that he's touched upon something. "This isn't drugs - it wouldn't make them like that, would it? It must be something else." He hasn't got a clue what the something else is, but he feels desperate to prove himself, to say something that none of the rest of them have thought of.

Warren gives him a slow clap. It's falsely dramatic and seems to last an age. He looks around the group. "Brain box Hay here says that it can't be drugs, so _of course_ it can't be!"

"Alright, give it a rest Warren," Tony says, stepping forward like he's acting as a barrier between them.

Ste doesn't know whether he's grateful or willing him to stop.

"What do you think it is then?" Ste says, needing to offer Warren a distraction so he'll forget about Tony's interjection.

Warren starts to pace the room - thankfully away from Tony - shoes squeaking against the floor with every footstep.

"I think these drugs are causing them to turn rabid."

"But how? I thought things couldn't interfere with their body like that."

"They can't feel pain like we can, but that doesn't mean that they can't feel the effects of drugs." Everyone's listening to his every word, poised for more information.

"Why is it not just, you know, doing what drugs usually do?" He says it as casually as he can; he doesn't want Warren to know that he's not entirely going on guesswork.

"They're not _normal_."

Ste's lost count of how many times Warren's said this, but there's as much revulsion there as there's always been. He sees a flicker of spit land on the floor. "We don't know how their bodies work. How they process things."

"So you think the drugs have made it turn rabid?" Darren says, voice quiet like he's afraid Warren will turn on him too.

"It's a possibility."

Ste has a feeling that it's a lot more than a possibility to Warren. Once he settles on something it's almost impossible to sway him from it.

"We'll have to do some tests."

"What do you mean, tests?" Ste doesn't like the way it sounds. He imagines men in white lab coats in a room full of tubes and machines and wires.

"We'll keep the rabid for a few days. Give it Neurotryptiline, wait for things to settle down, question it, and... experiment."

"Warren, you're not going to..." Ste can't even form the words.

"Are you talking about giving a rotter drugs?" Tony says. He seems determined to do Ste's work for him.

Warren shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. "Why not?"

"Because that's..." Ste loses his train of thought when Warren looks at him. There's a clear warning sign there. Stay quiet. Don't question anything. "That's not right. That's not..."

"What's wrong with it?" Warren sounds baffled, like he can't comprehend why he's being challenged on this. "The thing was stupid enough to take them in the first place."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean..." _That doesn't mean they deserve this._ The words won't form, but they feel loud and violent in his head. They're screaming to be spoken. "We can't just keep them here. They have a family."

He knows this isn't completely accurate though; it's rare for rotters to have a support system in place. Many of them are left homeless or have to start all over again, their families shutting them out.

"And what's the treatment centre going to say if we're pumping a rotter with those kind of drugs?" Ste laughs, looks around the group to try and show them the absurdity of the situation, but most of them are busy staring at the floor.

"It's helping." Warren looks like he's barely opening his mouth, speaking through his teeth instead.

"How?"

"We might be onto something here. What if the rabid hadn't been stopped in time? Someone could have got killed. We could save lives."

Everything's twisted.

"No, that's..." _No. No. You're not some fucking hero. This isn't for the greater good._

But isn't it?

What if the rabid had hurt someone he knew? What if it had been Amy or Leah or Lucas? Would he have been so forgiving then, talking about not doing these tests, not locking the rabid away?

Or would he have killed the thing himself?

"So what's the plan then? Tell me again. Properly this time," he asks softly. He wants to know exactly what Warren's going to do, although he's sure he'll get the watered down version.

"We speak to the rabid. Find out if these drugs have similar effects to Blue Oblivion. Then we find the supplier."

"The supplier?"

"The dealer. If it's a human than we need to know why they've been doing this. If it's a rotter, then..."

Then they die. It hangs in the air, an unspoken truth.

::::::

Amy's waiting up for him when he gets home.

"How was patrol?" She stares at him anxiously; perhaps she thinks he's already achieved the task that Warren's set him. The way she's looking at him, it's like she's trying to work out exactly who he is, how she should act.

"Fine." He kisses her lightly. "Same old."

It seems to reassure her, at least for the moment. She goes to bed soon after, leaving him to creep around the flat, having a shower as quietly as he can so as not to wake the kids. He hadn't meant to be home so late.

He hadn't seen the rabid again. When they'd left the treatment centre it had been silent, just their footsteps trailing along the corridor. There had been no screaming, no sounds of doors banging or the snarling that had been so present before. It had been as though nothing had ever happened to begin with.

They must have administered Neurotryptiline soon after the rabid was taken away. Ste's never seen where they keep them; it's been a part of the process which he's always been blind to. He's seen them killed - _he's_ killed them - and he's seen them being controlled, but he's never seen the in between: where they sleep while they're recovering, while the Neurotryptiline is leeching into their body and returning them to a semi-normal state. He's never seen the way they're treated; how the doctors touch them, how they speak to them, the things they do.

His job is to keep people safe. It's not to be part of that other world, where rabids are dragged back kicking and screaming to resemble, however artificially, something normal.

Younger than him. That's what he'd thought when he'd seen the rabid: a teenager. Maybe no more than eighteen.

Before he goes to his room he reaches up to the top shelf in the kitchen, finds one of the tablets that Amy sometimes takes if she can't sleep, downing it with water. He can't have another night lying awake and staring at the ceiling.

He changes into his pyjamas, makes sure his alarm is set for the next day so he can see the kids before they go to school. Then he checks his emails.

He has a new message from the dating site.

He doesn't open it straight away. He hovers his mouse over the email, checks it again. It definitely says new message. He rubs his eyes - he's exhausted, feels like he can barely move - but it's still there when he opens them.

He'd changed his settings, hadn't he? _Interested in women_. That's what he'd left it as. He's sure of it.

It can't be a man. No men would be able to see his profile. It's impossible.

If there's been a mistake and a man's messaged him, then he'll delete it. He'll delete it immediately.

He clicks on the email, scrolls through it, the words bleeding together.

It's not a man. It's Veronica. He'd completely forgotten that he'd finally messaged her before.

That's good, isn't it? If she's replied then it means that she likes him. Unless she's telling him to fuck off.

She's not.

 _Hi Ste. Thanks for your message. Want to meet up this week?_


	7. Chapter 7

It's as though he's never been on a date before.

He feels like his gut's twisted. He barely slept the night before - nothing new there, going by his sleep pattern of late - and he doesn't have much to eat in the morning, just nibbles on some dry bits of toast before abandoning the attempt completely. It takes him half an hour to pick out his outfit, and when he finally settles on a yellow striped shirt and some black trousers he parades in front of the mirror, surveying himself from all angles. He even practises his walk (thank God he has a lock on his bedroom door) - head up, eyes focused straight ahead. He can't introduce himself to Veronica looking like he wants the ground to swallow him up. He needs to make an impression.

He never gets like this. He wasn't this nervous with Amy, although he could see that she was on their first date; she played with her hair for most of it. He distinctly remembers her twirling her fingers around her long plait - she always wore a plait when they first started dating - and she'd stutter over her words and blush. It was flattering, if he was honest. He liked that he had that effect on her. He liked that he made her nervous.

He was never like this was Rae either. She was brasher than Amy, talking back to him when he deserved it, and sometimes when he didn't. She was sharp with what she said; there was no stumbling, no slow easing her way into a subject before she got to the point. But still he remembers being confident during their time together. Sure of himself.

Not like now. Fuck, he wasn't even like this when he lost his virginity.

He could hit his fist into the mirror he's so frustrated. _Why?_ Why does he have to be afraid now? There's nothing at stake. If Veronica doesn't like him then he hasn't lost anything. He can move on to the next girl, no hard feelings. He doesn't know her, so there's little chance of him being hurt by it. Why does he care if she likes him?

He sprays himself with Lynx - too much, but it's too late to go back - and gingerly opens his bedroom door. He tries to make it out of the house before he's seen, but he's spotted, Leah walking down the hallway towards him, _Daddy_.

Ste tries to shush her. She starts to frown, evidently confused, and he can't do it. He can't go through with it, with making her feel like there's a secret that needs to be kept. He can't run out on her like that.

"You alright?" He lifts her up and kisses her, hoping that she'll feel the apology there. She's making the front of his shirt all creased, her body leaning into it. His punishment, he thinks, for this foolish fear.

He takes Leah into the kitchen, can immediately see Amy's eyes on him when he enters the room. He's grown used to her doing this, to her checking up on him, assessing him like she'll find answers to what she's looking for, but it's different this time. When he looks at her her mouth is open slightly.

"You'll catch flies."

"What?"

He seems to have brought her out of whatever daydream she was in, the intensity gone. It's like she's trying not to look now.

"You look nice."

"Ta." He's embarrassed, wishes that he could look in the mirror again to make sure that she's not playing with him.

"Are you going straight to work?"

He's not. They both know he's not.

He wonders how to do this. Does he say it outright, or would that be too hasty? He could lie, but that's another one to add to the list, and it feels like it's growing into something wild, something he's losing control of. He wants today to be something that he doesn't feel any guilt over. He needs this, needs the distraction after what he saw at the treatment centre. This is his chance to forget for one day, and he can't do that with more lies hanging over him.

"No." He waits for her to put the plate she's carrying down onto the countertop. He doesn't want to shock her, and the last thing they need is the kids stepping on broken crockery. "I'm going on a date."

She turns to face him. It's quick - he's surprised she doesn't hurt her neck the movement's so fast.

The smile she gives is thin, stretched unnaturally like it's a battle of will to form.

"Wow." She releases a breath. He can hear it from where he's standing; it seems prolonged, like a sigh that she doesn't want to escape. "That's..."

She doesn't finish. Just leaves the sentence there, echoing between them.

He knows this, this feeling. He felt it when Amy went on her first date after they broke up. He felt it when he saw her kissing her new boyfriend for the first time. Josh, his name had been, and Ste had hated him on instinct. He'd felt it when he'd seen Amy crying on the sofa after Josh had ended things; felt it because if she was crying then it must have been something important to her, something happy once, and Ste hadn't been the source of that happiness.

"I thought I should tell you, because..." Because he wants to make this real. It's not just the need to be honest in this; if he tells her, if he says it, then he'll have to go. He's been considering cancelling. He may have got all dressed up, but that hasn't silenced the dread, the desire to run from the whole thing.

He won't be able to back out of it any more now that she knows.

"That's the first person since Rae, isn't it?" She gives a nod, smiles without it reaching her eyes. It was like this with Rae, this whole process of easing Amy into it. It may have been her idea, this dating site, the gentle encouragement which turned to egging him on, but that's all it had been at the time, a bit of fun. Maybe she had never expected him to walk in here and tell her that he was going.

She seems to remember that she was the instigator of this the same time as he does, because she seems to collect herself, and when she speaks again her voice is less strained than before. "That's really good."

"Thanks." He doesn't ask her if she really means it. He doesn't expect her to, and it's enough what she's said. It's enough that she's trying.

"That's another part of why I want you to leave the HVF, get another job. You never have a chance to really meet people, do you? Girls I mean."

"There are girls in the HVF," he says, defensive now. He doesn't want to appear completely hapless, as though he hasn't been able to interact with a girl for years.

"But most of them have got boyfriends or husbands, haven't they? Or...well, they're a bit old."

Ste doesn't tell her that Veronica's around the same age as these _old_ women.

"You don't have to worry now, anyway." He wonders if she can hear the slight bitterness behind his words. He was her concern, was he? He imagines her thinking about it; thinking that he was going to end up alone.

He shakes himself out of it. He knows it's a gut reaction that he's held onto for too long, taking her interest in his life as a slight.

"Where are you taking her then?"

He doesn't reply for a moment, stumped. He's been so preoccupied with how he looks and the impression he'll make that he hasn't even planned the date.

Fuck.

A smile crosses Amy's face.

"Ste, don't tell me that you haven't -"

"Dinner and a movie," he cuts in, voice loud. "It's a classic, isn't it?"

Amy's giving him a beady eyed look. He can feel the scepticism dripping off her, and a desire to tease him for forgetting such an important detail.

She lets it slide.

"Have a nice time. Tell me all about it when you get back."

"That might not be till late. I'll probably go to work straight after." He feels guilty saying it. It's different now that she knows what he's got to do, what Warren's asked of him - or what he's told her. He's trying to pretend it's the same thing, that the lies aren't spiralling.

Her expression turns serious, the very opposite of what he wants it to be. He can see her thinking about it. Work is no longer just an annoyance to her, no longer just something that takes him away from her and kids. It's not the gun in the house that's bothering her any more, or the sight of him in his uniform, so far removed in her eyes from the person he is at home. It's the knowledge of what he's going to have to do to be free.

Amy glances at the kids. They're talking to each other, entirely oblivious, but her eyes dart back and forth between them as she talks, like her words are carving a place inside of them, poisoning them.

"Is tonight when you..."

Ste pretends he doesn't know what she's talking about. He stays silent, doesn't help.

 _Don't ask me. Please don't ask me._

"Is it when you..." She's struggling, not wanting to say the word _kill_ , but not knowing what else to say in its place.

He can't leave her to flounder. As tempting as it is to not answer at all, he can hear her plea for him to be the one to say it.

"No. It's not going to be for a while yet." He feels like he's sinking as he says it.

"What? But I thought it would all be over."

"It takes time, Amy." He's snapped enough for the kids to both look up at him. Lucas's face crumples like it does before he cries. He looks between his parents like he's assessing the situation, working out whether he needs to be afraid.

Ste reaches out, runs a hand through Lucas's hair. It calms him enough that he continues with his breakfast, the crease on his forehead smoothing out.

"Sorry," Ste says, eyes flickering to Amy. "It's going to be soon. I promise. It's just..."

It's just that if he talks about the delay, it's going to seem even more impossible. This was meant to be quick. He wasn't meant to be part of the HVF for months still, waiting until the rotter does something to tie the noose around its own neck.

"Let me guess - you can't tell me?"

He gives an embarrassed smile, watching as she rolls her eyes. He thinks they're on safe ground; there's something casual about the way she's asking him, like she believes his promise.

There's a touch of relief there too, he thinks, that she doesn't have to imagine him killing someone tonight.

She gives him a kiss, makes him do a spin in his outfit - much to his intense mortification - before wishing him good luck.

The minute he steps outside the front door he wishes he could go back inside. It's always been safer in there.

::::::

Now that dinner and a movie is in his mind, it's all he can come up with.

He settles on the film first. That way they'll have something to talk about when they eat, and if it's uncomfortable when they first meet then at least they'll be in a darkened room, forced into silence. He likes that; likes the idea of not having to make small talk. He'll have the length of the film to come up with something interesting to say.

Veronica had wanted to meet in town. He has a suspicion that it's because she wants somewhere public and open and crowded, in case she takes one look at him and discovers that he's most definitely not the twenty one year old brunette in his photo, and is instead a balding man of fifty who fancies his chances. He doesn't blame her; now that the thought's occurred to him he can't get it out of his head that she might not be who she said she was either.

What if she isn't called Veronica? What if she isn't blond, and is in fact years older than her profile states? Or what if she isn't a _she_ at all? What if it's been a man the whole time, pretending?

Ste's stomach lurches. If Amy happens to go into town and sees him with a man, and knows that it's his date, and sees them walking around together -

He almost runs. There's a bus pulling up where he's walking, and he could jump on it and head straight back home. It would be so easy. He could text Veronica, or whoever this person is, and come up with some half put together excuse, and get out of the whole thing.

His panic is mounting enough that he doesn't notice that he's being stared at. He doesn't notice that his name's being called either; it takes several moments before he registers that the person in front of him is trying to get his attention.

He blinks, stupefied.

She's more attractive than her photo. It didn't do her justice, didn't show how her body looks in clinging clothing, the way her stomach goes in and her waist goes out. The way her breasts protrude out of her t-shirt. Her hair looks impossibly blond; she's curled it, looks like, and it spills over her shoulders like silk. She's wearing bright pink lipstick. He can see it on her teeth when she smiles.

"Ste?" She seems unsure now; she must see that it's him, that it's the same man from his photo, but his lack of a reaction makes her unsure.

 _Say something_. She'll begin to worry if he doesn't, and she might be the one jumping on the bus and going home.

"Hiya. Alright?" He sticks a hand out, sees the way her forehead creases slightly at the gesture.

Shit.

He withdraws his hand quickly. What is it you're meant to do on a first date? He steps forward a little, is about to kiss her on the cheek when he stops himself. That's too much, isn't it, for a first date?

He smiles. It's the best he's got.

"How are you?"

Some of the uncertainty leaves her.

"Fine, yeah. You?"

"Good." He nods, can feel the silence starting to creep in, and his mind works frantically to try and prevent it from escalating. "You look nice," he says, and then he's just _got_ to look again, now that he's drawn attention to it. She's wearing a skirt and high heels, the kind that he's seen Amy attempt to wear. She never has mastered it without falling over.

He's sure he's staring a little too much. Veronica doesn't appear to mind; she practically basks in the attention, waves her hand dismissively: _I know I look nice._

She doesn't return the compliment, and the self consciousness returns. The Lynx was a bad idea. It's all he can smell, and he can feel his skin grow hot with the worry that she's noticed it too.

 _Move things on. Come on._

"So, I was thinking maybe we could see a film, go for dinner afterwards?' He tries to speak slowly, but it sounds disjointed, too fast like it's clear that he's overcompensating.

"Sounds good."

He could kiss her for making this so easy on him.

"Right, that's... Shall we?" He nods down the street, suggests that they start walking. She's almost taller than him in her heels, and he's aware that he must look like a child next to her. It's not that she looks old - she doesn't - but he feels young in his oversized shirt and baggy trousers, like a schoolboy playing dress up.

She seems to read his mind.

"So, fancy older women do you?" She throws a grin his way.

He's surprised at the abruptness.

"What?" He doesn't know what to say; everything that's coming to mind sounds offensive, like he'll be making a dig at her if he says it out loud.

"You're only twenty one, aren't you?" She looks at him, then frowns. "Unless you're lying."

"Why would I be lying?" It's his turn to be offended. He may have skirted round some truths in his profile - namely, pretending that he has a far more interesting life than he does - but he hadn't outright lied.

Veronica shrugs. "You wouldn't be the first."

"Look old, do I?" He can hear the edge of annoyance in his voice, tries to rein it in.

She laughs. "No. I meant younger. You barely look a day older than sixteen."

"Sixteen?" He's almost shouting now; he sees someone in front of them turn around and give him a look. "You're kidding me, right?"

"You'd be surprised how many teenagers go on the site and look for an older women. It's simple really. They lie about their age, and by the time you meet up with them they're hoping you'll look past it."

"You sound like you speak from experience." He's not sure he likes it, the thought of her having done this so many times before. He doesn't care how many guys she's fucked, but he does care about the comparisons.

"There's been a few." She's looking at him carefully, as though gauging his reaction.

"Well I promise I'm not sixteen."

"And the older woman thing?" She nudges him playfully with her elbow.

"Don't know." He hadn't given it much thought. Perhaps he had wanted something different. He's only ever gone out with girls his own age. He doesn't say this; he may not have had a lot of experience with going on dates, but he's sure talking about past girlfriends is strictly off limits. "Just... Thought it might be fun. You?"

"Same. I've always wanted a toyboy." She winks at him, and his irritation at her thinking he's so young vanishes.

They reach the cinema. He remembers just in time to hold open the door for her, and he insists on paying for the tickets. He doesn't tell her that he'll be living off baked beans next week so he can afford today.

"What do you want to see?" He asks, and they look up at the timetable on display. He can already see from the titles that there are several romantic comedies on, and his head fills with a prayer of _not that one, not that one._

"What's your favourite genre?"

"Action," he answers immediately, watching as Veronica pulls a face. "Oi. It's good. Least it's not boring, is it?"

"Go on then. How about the one with the...guns."

He laughs.

"What?"

"Nothing. The one with the guns. I'll get the tickets."

::::::

It's going well. He gets them a large popcorn and they make their way to their seats. As the lights dim and the adverts start, they're still talking. When the trailers begin they're shushed by the people in front of them, and Veronica erupts into laughter that proves to be infectious; Ste smothers his own behind his hand as he reaches for some popcorn. He feels a warm hand against his, and they both look at each other then away again when they realise they've touched.

He's not aware of the age gap any more. This thing, whatever it is, it feels like they're equal.

They settle back to watch the film. Sometimes he gets restless sitting for hours at a time focused on only one thing, but it's good enough to hold his attention. Perhaps that's why he doesn't immediately notice that Veronica's not focused on the screen. Only when he's reaching for a particularly large handful of popcorn does he see that she's looking at him.

He almost jumps.

He leans towards her, whispers.

"You alright?"

She smiles at him.

"You?"

He nods, feels uneasy and he's not sure why. It's not weird for her to be staring; he's been guilty of doing the same since they met. He should be feeling flattered that she even wants to look at him. There are plenty of other guys on the site - guys like Callum - who anyone would want.

She doesn't say anything. He thinks they're going to go back to the film, but then he feels it: a warm pressure on his leg, and the realisation that she's put her hand there.

He freezes. He doesn't even look down. He doesn't have to; he knows what's happening, although he doesn't know _why_. They were in silence a moment ago, watching the film - or he was watching it - and now she's rubbing her hand against his leg over the fabric of his trousers, and he doesn't have a clue what to do.

Is this what happens on these kind of dates, ones from online? Maybe this is normal and no one ever told him. They'd done this, him and Rae, snogging in the back seats of a cinema, ignoring the disapproving looks from people when the lights had gone back on at the end. But they'd been going out for weeks by then, and there had been a build up to it - he's sure there had been. He'd known they were going to kiss before they did it. He'd been able to tell by the way she'd looked at him, and he'd wanted it. He'd thought of nothing else throughout the date.

He doesn't know why he doesn't want it now.

No, that's not true - he _does_ want it. He came here, didn't he, and he knew that this was a possibility. The whole reason he'd joined the site was to meet someone, and here Veronica is, sitting next to him, her hand on him, wanting him to kiss her.

It's because it's scary. That's it. He's out of practice. His mind's been diverted lately. All he's thought about is the HVF, but this - this, here, now - is his chance to get away from all of that.

He leans forward, does it slowly in case Veronica changes her mind, and when she doesn't he kisses her.

He can taste her lipstick. It's sickly sweet, and he can smell her perfume too. He expects it to be a soft kiss, but Veronica deepens it; opens her mouth wider, and he knows what she wants. Their tongues touch.

He can't hear any of the dialogue from the film now, just the low hum of background noise. Veronica wasn't being inaccurate when she mentioned the guns; they seem to get louder until he can no longer hear the way his heart's thudding in his chest.

She doesn't stop touching him when they draw apart. He's sure most of her lipstick has transferred onto him; he feels like he can smell it on himself now.

"That was nice," he says, because he's sure he's meant to say _something_ , and it's out of his mouth before he can consider how it sounds.

 _Nice?_

She doesn't seem to take offense. Her hand's moving southwards, her movements assured and deft. Ste shifts in his seat. He's sure that she can't be about to do what he thinks she is, but as her hand creeps higher he loses that certainty. His skin feels hyper aware of her touch as she rubs over his trousers, his cock reacting, his mouth agape before he comes to his senses.

"Veronica." He sounds panicked to his own ears.

"What?" She seems confused by his interruption, but there's no hesitation or ceasing of her movements.

"We're..." He's having difficulty forming words. Maybe it's the situation they're in - the fact that they're in a very public place and could be caught at any moment - or maybe it's that it's been such a long time. He may not be a sixteen year old any more, but he feels like one now, one who could come from the first stroke.

He really doesn't want to make a mess of his trousers in a packed cinema.

"We're in _public_."

She laughs softly, strokes him harder, her face inches from his.

"Makes it more exciting, doesn't it?"

"What about the film though?" He says meekly, grateful for the darkness of the room when she laughs louder, making him colour.

"This is better, isn't it?"

She seems to stare at him harder when he doesn't reply.

"Ste?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's..."

He tries to sit back and enjoy what she's doing to him. So what if he comes in his trousers? He can go the bathroom and clean himself up. He knows most guys would envy the position he's in. He'd been convinced that she wouldn't even come on this date after seeing him, and here she is wanking him off. He's fucking _lucky_.

He's also struggling to stay quiet.

He bites his lip as her pace increases, staring at the screen - he's sure that he'll come if he looks at what she's doing - but not really seeing anything. It seems impossible now that this is the same film he was following moments ago. He can't make sense of the plot now, or understand who the characters are. Everything they say seems distorted, as though spoken in a foreign tongue.

"Veronica..."

She doesn't stop.

He puts his hand over hers, does it before it's too late. Her skin feels cooling against his, and he needs that right now, almost breathes a sigh of relief at the sensation of it.

He chances a glance behind them now that she's still. The people he can make out in the darkness are focused on the screen, staring straight ahead. No one in front of them seems to be looking either. He must not have been as loud as he thought he was.

He lets out a laugh, soft and breathless. Veronica matches it, gives him a smile that's like a challenge.

"Want to get out of here?"

He wasn't expecting that. There's a moment where he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know whether he's heard her correctly, or if he has then maybe he's misinterpreted it.

He decides to play it safe.

"For a drink?"

He can see her raise her eyebrows in the dark.

"Not exactly, no." It's the way she says it more than the words. He's not imagining the way she's flirting with him; not imagining the suggestion there. He's sure of it.

His stomach's clenching again. It reminds him of when he was a kid, when he'd be nervous or sad or afraid, when it would feel like his body wasn't in contact with his brain, was trying to break free from it. He could tell himself that it was going to be okay, but he'd get lightheaded, feel his head begin to pound, and his stomach would be in knots that felt big enough to make him fall.

He becomes aware that he's still got his hand over Veronica's. He moves it away, uses it to hold onto the arm of the seat.

"What about food though?"

That elicits a bigger laugh than the one before.

"Come on, Ste."

Maybe he hesitates for too long, because she grows restless; sort of shifts in her seat, slouches a bit like she's sulking from not getting her own way.

"Where are we going? We can't go to mine, Amy might be there."

"Amy?"

Fuck.

He hadn't mentioned her in his profile. He'd talked about the kids - he thought it was only fair that a girl should know what they were getting themselves into - but he hadn't written anything about still living with his ex. It wasn't something that was easy to word casually, and he'd eventually given up trying when every attempt made it sound like they were still very much a family.

"She's my friend."

Veronica looks at him, waiting for more.

"The mother of my kids."

"Bit more of a friend then, isn't she?"

"No, she...she's just there dropping them off. Then she goes back to her place. But she might get there just as we do, so... Best be on the safe side."

He immediately realises the problems with this lie: the fact that it sounds that he's going to leave the kids all by themselves until Amy picks them up again. The fact that he's lying at all. If Veronica ever comes to the flat then she'll see evidence of Amy everywhere, from the way they've decorated it to her clothes lying scattered around, to the mug of hers from the kids engraved _best mum eve_ r.

But something tells him that she won't ever see any of that.

"Come to mine then." She's leaning so close to him that he's sure she's going to kiss him again.

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "It's not far from here."

"Okay."

He has to wait a moment until the stiffness in his trousers isn't so evident. Veronica teases him, suggests that the cameras which cinema staff use to check piracy have caught the whole thing on tape.

"Give over." He laughs, but when they're walking back into reception he watches the staff carefully, feels his embarrassment rising when he's sure that they're looking at him strangely. He walks quickly, not looking back.

He hadn't realised how much he'd needed the fresh air until he's outside. Veronica tries to walk the minute they leave the building, but Ste stands separately from the throng of people pushing past each other on the high street, waiting to feel normal again. There's perspiration on his forehead; he wipes it off against his sleeve, looking at Veronica and wondering how her make up can still be so intact.

"Nice shirt by the way."

"What?"

"Your shirt." She nods down at it, the corners of her mouth quirking up like she's trying to hide her smile.

"Ta," he says. _Snazzy_ , Rae had called that shirt, and she'd given him that same smile.

First thing he's doing when he gets home is burning the thing.

"Have you got...you know?" She gives him a pointed look.

"What?" He feels like the subject's abruptly changed and he can't keep up. Should he know?

"Condoms."

"Oh." He scratches his head, feels flustered. "No, I... I didn't think..." He hasn't prepared for this.

She shakes her head at him like she's disappointed.

"Honestly. I thought you men all had a one track mind. Or did you expect me to take care of everything?"

"No, I..." He doesn't want her thinking either thing about him. "I just didn't think that..." He stops himself. If he says that he didn't think it would happen so soon then it'll sound like he's passing judgement.

Veronica seems to be thinking the same thing; her eyes widen, and he gets the feeling that she's daring him to go there.

"I'll get some." He scans the street, tries to find somewhere - a supermarket, a chemist, anywhere that'll sell them. "I'll just - one minute, yeah?"

He runs across the street, turning back once to make sure that she hasn't used the opportunity to make a break for it. She's still there - looking wary, admittedly - but still there.

He goes to the first shop he sees, trails the aisles until he finds what he's looking for. When he's paying it takes him a moment to find his money; he digs around in his pockets until he gets enough, coins flying everywhere, and he's aware of the cashier trying not to laugh. He stuffs the condoms into his pocket. He really should have asked for a bag.

He runs back, swerves around a car and gets hooted at. His legs feel like they're shaking.

"Got them." He still feels like he's waiting for the catch, for her to tell him at any moment that she's been playing him.

"Right." She links her arm through his. "Let's go."

::::::

They sleep afterwards. He doesn't intend to drop off; he's holding her, sort of cuddling up, trying to get comfortable. He only closes his eyes for a moment, but the next thing he knows he's awake and it's darker outside, only a small amount of light coming in through the closed curtains.

Their clothes are scattered round the room. He steps on her bra when he tiptoes out of bed. He manages to locate his boxers and socks while she carries on sleeping, and he slips them on and makes his way to the bathroom.

It's strange to be in someone else's house like this.

He doesn't want her to wake and think that he's left her. He doesn't want to be _that_ guy. He hopes she'll sleep through it, or that she'll see his trousers and shirt on the floor and know that he hasn't legged it out the window.

He freshens himself up, opening her cabinets until he finds some mouthwash, swirls a capful around his mouth until he can only taste mint. He can still smell her perfume on his skin, and when he presses his lips together there are the remnants of her lipstick, sticky and artificial in its sweetness.

He stares at himself in the small mirror. He can only see down to his chest. He doesn't know what he expects to see - something different? Something that will show what happened; a fingernail mark, or an area where her teeth have been, or a bruise where she's sucked. But there are none of those things, because they didn't happen.

It felt like a blur. He took his time - he _made_ himself take his time, because he didn't want the embarrassment of coming too soon - but the memory of it now seems hazy, as though he's looking at it through a muddy lens. There had been a rush to remove their clothes, and then an awkwardness when they had. She'd taken charge then: pushed him down onto the bed, taken his cock in her hand and jerked him off until he was hard enough for her liking, and then he'd returned in kind; gone down on her, listened to the sounds she was making above him, made her wet with his spit and his tongue.

He'd been on top of her when he'd fucked her, but it had been difficult to look at her. He'd forgotten what it felt like to look into the eyes of someone you didn't really know; there was an unease about it that made him aware that he was in a stranger's house, in a stranger's bed, both of them pretending that they weren't really strangers at all.

But they're not now, are they? He knows things about her. The next time they meet, they won't be building something from scratch.

He tries to imagine it, this meeting, but he can't conjure it in his mind. The pieces don't fit together. He doesn't know what they'd talk about, what they'd do. Would they go on another date, get to know each other, or would they come back to hers and sleep together again?

He can't remember her last name, doesn't remember if he ever knew it at all. Does she have any brothers and sisters - did she mention that in her profile? Did she talk about that before she stuck her hand down his pants?

 _It doesn't matter._

Why does it matter to him? What the fuck is he even doing in here, hiding away in the bathroom?

He looks at himself again, wonders if the shadows that are under his eyes have always been there.

He closes the door quietly, making his way down the hallway. It's a shock, the differences between their flats. He's so used to being in his that he half expects to find one of the kids' toys tucked away underneath a chair or lying on the carpet ready to trip him up.

When he gets back to the room Veronica's still got her eyes closed, and nothing in her breathing or appearance suggests to him that she's woken up. He's as careful as possible when he climbs into bed, leaving her with most of the covers. She stirs a little; lets out a sigh and moves closer to him, but her eyes stay shut.

He's about to go back to sleep when he hears the sound of a phone.

He thinks it's his at first. The ringtone sounds the same, and he quickly tries to find it so he can end the call. It's too late though; Veronica's awake now, rubbing her eyes and watching as Ste shifts in the bed.

"I think that's mine." She sits up, her hair fluffy from being pressed against the pillow in a certain position.

"No, it's -"

He's found it. She's right: it's hers. The phone's next to his trousers on the floor - he vaguely remembers the thud that it made as it had fallen out of her bag earlier. She'd sworn as she'd checked it, and when she'd made sure that it wasn't broken they'd laughed.

He picks it up, the screen flashing. He's about to hand it to her when he stops.

He turns to her, clutching the phone tightly.

"Why is Brendan Brady calling you?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Why is Brendan Brady calling you?"

The phone's still in his hand, his fingers curled around it tightly, his knuckles whitened against the pressure. He stares at it again, wonders if he's made a mistake, but the name's there lighting up the screen as it flashes. Brendan Brady, calling.

Veronica stares between him and the phone.

"Give it here, Ste." She sounds flustered, caught out.

He holds it back when she makes an attempt to grab it, puts his hand behind him and out of her reach. It's not that he doesn't want her to answer and find out what's going on. But first he needs to know _why_.

"What's he...do you know him?" He has a sinking feeling, goosebumps creeping up his arms. He draws the covers up closer around him, and the reminder that he's in a bed with this woman makes him feel colder. _Shocked_ , the intimacy of what he's just contrasting with the detachment he feels now. He feels betrayed, caught in a web that he can't extricate himself from, and it's all him. He put himself here. It makes him drop the formality, makes him forget the rules that have been ingrained in him by the Human Volunteer Force, but even as he's speaking he can hear Warren correcting him: _It's not a him, Ste. It's an it._

He pushes the voice away. There's no use in being high and mighty, not with this girl, not now that everything's changed.

"How do _you_ know him?"

"He's a rotter. He's..." He feels sick.

"So?"

"So, he's..." He's trying to connect the dots, but they won't fit together yet. "Is he your mate?" The idea seems implausible. He'd already decided that Brendan couldn't possibly have any mates, but Veronica's expression is blank. She's not saying yes, but she's not saying no either. She looks past him, trying to seek out the phone behind his back as though by doing so she can conjure it into her hands. Ste chances bringing it in front of him. The screen's turned dark. Brendan must have given up.

Another question. Another thought, something worse than before.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

No reaction. Nothing. Not a flicker of change from her, something to give her away.

He gets out of bed, throws the covers off him, shivering as he scrambles to pull his clothes on. He gets his legs stuck in his trousers, twists and turns as he tries to get out, then starts to put his shirt on back to front.

He needs to leave. Everything inside him is telling him to get out.

"Where are you going?" Veronica gets out of bed, stands across from him. Her nakedness is another startling reminder that an hour before he'd had his hands all over her.

"How do you know him?" It won't go away, this need to know. He tries to imagine a scenario in which they would have met, but that's all it is, _imagining_. Nothing seems real enough. Brendan had only mentioned one sister, Cheryl.

A friend? Maybe Ste had been wrong. Maybe Brendan isn't the type to go through life alone.

But then why won't Veronica say it?

"Was I right? Are you two together?"

She snorts. "Not exactly."

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just... listen, don't go. You're making a big deal out of nothing."

It makes him defensive. "You're the one not telling me."

"Yeah, because you're sounding like some jealous boyfriend. I swear Ste, if that's what you're like, then -"

"It's not. I don't feel anything."

She looks at him sharply; he hadn't meant it like that.

"Just tell me how you know him. It's important." He can't imagine the two belonging in the same world: Veronica with her perfectly manicured nails and bleached hair and short little skirts, and Brendan with the dirt around his fingernails and his soulless eyes and the pale white skin devoid of life.

She's avoiding his eyes, looking at the floor.

"Here." He reaches for the dressing gown that's lying on the back of her door. "Put this on, yeah?" He can't have this conversation with her like this.

He waits till she's dressed. She seems relieved by the distraction; seems to think that he's forgotten his question while he waits.

"Tell me. Please." He keeps his voice calm, steady, what he hopes is non threatening.

 _Count to ten. Don't lose control._

Veronica sighs, a distance to her now. She looks tired. Tired of him.

"I work for him, alright?"

"You work for him?

"Are you going to repeat everything I say? Yes, I work for him. That's it. There's no drama, alright? Don't make a big deal out of it." She huffs like a petulant child, looking like she wants to crawl back into bed.

"But..." It's still not making sense. "He never said... He put on his form that he's unemployed. They're all meant to be unemployed."

"What? What are you on about? What form?" She's looking worried, like it's her who's caught in the web now.

He's talking to himself more than to her. "He's not allowed. That's not how it works."

"Ste, what are you..." She shakes her head like she's trying to clear it. "What the fuck is going on? How do you know him?"

"I'm in the Human Volunteer Force."

She takes a step back, the backs of her legs knocking against the bed.

"Shit."

He's sure he sees her looking towards the door.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He doesn't know why he says it. It should be obvious. It shouldn't be something she's scared of.

She looks at him like he's gone mad.

"Who said you were? I can look after myself, you know."

Relief washes through him. She wasn't. She wasn't scared.

"I know, I just... If you thought I was going to..." He unclenches his fists. He wasn't going to. He wasn't.

The way she's staring at him now, he's guessing there won't be a second date.

She turns her back on him, starts gathering her clothes up in her arms. She looks embarrassed when she picks up her underwear, stashing it away in her drawers. He can see the tops of her ears turning pink.

"Listen, it's been really nice to meet you, but -"

"No." He moves closer to her - not too close - and only then realises that he's still holding her phone. There's a voicemail, a new one.

He could listen to it, call Brendan back.

"No, don't be doing that. I need to know what kind of work you've been doing for him."

"Or what? Are you going to stay here until I tell you?"

She's got guts, he'll give her that. She's identified his weak spot, knows that he can't do anything against her - that he _won't_ \- and that he'll have to leave eventually.

He can't make her do anything.

"Please." Begging. He's had to resort to this. "We're trying to help people, Veronica."

Her voice is laced with sarcasm when she speaks. "Oh yeah, I know all about the kind of _help_ you give."

"What's that meant to mean?" He shouldn't be defending it. He's the one who's trying to get away from the whole thing, to run and never look back. But he's also all too aware that he's spent years of his life with the HVF, and he can't think that it's meant nothing.

"Nothing."

"No, come on. People would be dead without us. What do you think would have happened in The Rising if we hadn't been around, eh? Do you think you'd be walking around in your high heels without a care in the world?"

She looks disgusted with him. He can see her drawing in on herself, shrinking away from him like he offends her.

"You don't have to keep doing what you're doing. The way you treat people, it's..."

He's about to bite back, _they're not people_ , but he stops himself. He's the one who's made Brendan human, who's turned the rotter back into a _him_.

"Get out, Ste."

He looks at her sharply. "What?"

"I mean it. First you're accusing me of being some kind of... going on that site and arranging to meet you when I apparently have a boyfriend, and now you're -"

"I'm sorry. I didn't..."

It's too late. She wraps the dressing gown securely around her, tying it tightly, grabbing her phone from him before he can stop her, and then she's pushing him out of the room, out of the door. He's protesting - he's only got one shoe on, for fuck's sake - but she's pushing him and pushing him, and to push her back is something he won't do. He can't; he can't afford to lose everything, to risk it all.

The door slams in his face. It seems to ring for a long time, the force of it.

He doesn't move, not right away. He stares at the door, willing for it to open again, for Veronica to not leave him standing here. The silence stretches on; he looks down at his feet, one trainer on and one off - he's wearing socks at least, if he can count that as a small blessing - and then he looks around, contemplates whether this is a public humiliation or a private one.

He doesn't see any curtains twitching, any sign that anyone's noticed anything.

He's going to have to walk it. Just as he's thinking of it, the door opens abruptly. He only has a chance to turn around before his missing shoe is thrown at him, the door closed again. He catches a flash of blond hair, and then there's nothing.

Slowly he puts on his other shoe. He's not alone now; he sees a couple walk past him down the street, giving him a sideways glance before continuing. He doesn't know what he looks like.

He never got a chance to write down Brendan's number or to hear that voicemail.

::::::

He doesn't know where Brendan lives. The information isn't exactly confidential - all rotters had to provide their address to Warren when they joined the employment programme. Ste's sure the paperwork will be kept in the office in the treatment centre, and it won't be difficult to get access to the keys. But there's still the chance that he could be caught, and that could lead to a whole line of questioning that he's not comfortable with.

He tries other routes first. Nowhere in town; he doesn't know where Brendan would go, what he would do. The idea of him going shopping seems ridiculous, although he must, like all of them must.

He starts at the village. He walks back instead of taking the bus. It saves him money, and he needs that after paying for the cinema tickets and popcorn. It gives him a chance to clear his head too. He feels in a daze, the people around him bleeding into one until he's almost crashing into them as he walks back, narrowly avoiding them at the last second. He must look drunk.

 _Of course_ he'd have to choose someone who works with a rotter. _Of course_ out of all the women on that site he'd have to pick someone who's connected to Brendan. He could have chosen anyone, one of the countless other girls, and they could have chosen him, but he ended up with someone who's fraternizing with the creature he's been assigned to kill.

He could laugh. He won't, but he could.

His anger mounts the more he walks, everything that's happened going through his head like a thorn in his side, prickling and stabbing and tormenting. It was meant to make him feel better, this date. It wasn't meant to make him feel like _this_.

He arrives back in the village sooner than he expects. It's quiet, and he's grateful for it. He doesn't want to run into anyone he knows. He needs to focus: to think of where Brendan might be. If he can track down the rotter then it'll save him from finding out his address. The idea of visiting him at home isn't something Ste likes. He's always imagined rotters living in seclusion somewhere, far away from all of them, as though there are valleys and mountains and caves where they lurk, shielding themselves from daylight. He knows in theory it's stupid - they aren't vampires - but the alternative, that they live side by side as normal with the rest of them, seems even more foreign.

Sarah is his exception. Sarah is always his exception.

The problem is, he doesn't know where to start. Even with the limited options of this place he doesn't know what Brendan likes; what his interests are, who he spends time with, if anyone.

He doesn't know a single thing about him that could help him with this. He's kept it like that on purpose, but now it's working against him.

He starts with generic places: the pub. He has a quick look around, avoiding Frankie so she won't try and start a conversation with him. He's wary of bumping into Warren or any of the HVF, but they must all be at the treatment centre doing their experiments. Prodding, probing, testing.

 _I know all about the kind of help you give. The way you treat people, it's..._

He goes to the shops, looks in the nearby coffee shops, even looks in the hall they'd rented for the council's benefit days ago on the off chance that Brendan's snuck in.

It's like he's vanished.

A rotter like Brendan, you wouldn't just miss him. He's overbearing; you know when he's there. His presence demands to be felt. Ste had experienced it the first time he'd met him, and every time afterwards. He looks at you and it's like the world stops spinning. It's the threat of him, must be. If you don't look right back then you don't know what he'll do.

He's going to have to get his address.

::::::

The treatment centre looks less imposing in daylight. As he walks through the doors it's hard to think about what he saw the other night, hard to think it even happened at all. It's quiet today; if there are any rabids inside then they must be sedated. Perhaps the one from the other night is still locked away, unaware of what's being done to him, too drugged up to know.

He nods over to the receptionist. She stares at him for a moment, looks like she's trying to place him without his uniform, and he gets out his HVF pass card just to make sure she doesn't think he's trespassing, flashing it at her until she relaxes and waves him in. He thinks she'd recognise him if he was flanked by Warren and the others. He can't remember ever coming here alone before.

He heads straight for the room that the HVF usually occupy. It's small, far too cramped for all of them to fit in. Ste feels suffocated every time they come here, all squeezed into the one space, the smell of sweat filling his senses. It feels different to him now; too big, almost, and he can't shake the feeling of being on edge now that he's here. He feels _sneaky_ , like he's doing something he shouldn't be, and it only intensifies when he closes the door quietly behind him. He's faced with a desk and a chair, and files lining the shelves on the walls. Every few seconds he's sure he can hear footsteps heading down the hallway towards him, and it distracts him at every turn. Every time he goes to pick up a file he stops, thinks that the door's about to be opened and he'll be asked what the hell he's doing here.

 _So what?_ He has a right to be here. There's no law banning him. He's here for work, not to do anything illegal. He has every right to have access to those files.

He brings a file down, puts it on the desk and gets to work. His hands are quick as he scans through the pages, does it at such speed that he doesn't take a single thing in.

 _Stop. Calm down. You're not doing anything wrong._

He sits down. He knows he shouldn't - if someone comes in then he'll be able to put the file back quicker if he's standing - but it makes him feel better, helps to regulate his breathing and settle the panic.

He turns the pages slower, registering some of the names inside. Jacqui McQueen. Rhys Ashworth. Texas Longford. Seth Costello. Some he knows from his own group, and others he remembers from when their names were called out at the meeting. But no Brendan.

At first Ste thinks his details haven't been registered. It wouldn't entirely surprise him; he can imagine Brendan protesting against having his privacy invaded. But he also knows that Warren wouldn't allow such a thing, wouldn't ever make alloances for any rotter, let alone one who's crossed him.

He keeps going, goes through each page separately and carefully until he sees his name.

 _Brendan Brady._

Underneath is an address and a phone number. Ste grabs some paper out of the printer, scribbles down everything and stuffs it into his pocket. He returns the file to where it was - making sure that everything looks untouched - and leaves. He doesn't look back at the receptionist as he walks, and doesn't attempt to look into any of the treatment rooms.

It's raining when he gets outside. He pulls his hood up and keeps walking.

::::::

It doesn't take him long to find the address. He has to get out his phone, use it to guide him, but the place isn't far from the heart of the village.

The weather's got worse. He shelters under a tree for a while and considers going to get a coffee to keep dry, but he can't delay this any longer or he'll lose his nerve and start thinking of the hundreds of reasons why he shouldn't be doing it.

He knows what he should do: report this to Warren, tell him that Brendan's got outside work that he hasn't admitted to.

But then what? All he has is Veronica's word, a woman who he'd only met for the first time today. He can't tell Warren the circumstances behind their meeting - he'd only get the piss taken out of him, or be branded a liar. He can imagine the conversation now, Warren calling him desperate for having to resort to meeting women online, then asking him for proof of this mystery Veronica.

This could be his chance. His chance to finally move things forward with Brendan, to speed up this whole process. Don't get too close, Tony had said, but why not? All he's learnt about Brendan so far is that he's a fucking nuisance; attacking him at the treatment centre, almost killing him, stealing the instructions and sabotaging his attempts to be a leader to his group. Maybe this will help, and he'll be even more convinced that Brendan's death won't be any great loss to the world.

He can't stand here the entire day staring at the house. _Flat_ , to be accurate - bigger than Ste's own, and more presentable from the outside, but still relatively small. He's struck by how ordinary it looks; the blue door, the curtains, the faded bricks. He doesn't know what he was expecting - decay, darkness, bats flying out of the window and church bells ringing ominously in the background?

He didn't expect this though, for it to be so nondescript.

He didn't bring his gun. He realises it as he moves to knock on the door. He's so used to carrying it everywhere; he'd even reached for it when he'd been preparing for the date.

He must have a death wish.

It's not too late, is it? He's knocked now, but he could turn back, run away like when he was a kid and used to play knock down ginger. He can pretend this whole thing never happened, go and tell Warren everything he knows, however limited it may be.

The door begins to open. Too late.

He's waiting to be met by a pale face and dead eyes.

He doesn't expect the woman who stares back at him, her hair in curls and her mouth lined by lipstick bright enough to rival Veronica's. She's in a dress despite the cold outside. Her expression is curious but open, and she doesn't look scared.

"You alright love?"

 _Love_. He doesn't even know her. She doesn't even know him.

She waits for him to speak. The address must be wrong. This can't be Brendan's house.

"Sorry, I... sorry." Ste stumbles backwards, wonders how he could have been so mistaken.

"Can I help you with something?"

"No, I... I was looking for someone, but..."

"It's not Brendan, is it?" She seems amused now. "You wouldn't be the first."

 _What?_

"Is that him? Who you're looking for?"

He nods, still not understanding the connection.

"I'm his sister."

Fuck. He'd known - of course he'd known - that Brendan had a sister. Several times he'd thought that Brendan might have made her up, but he'd never entirely ruled out her being real. But this - this woman in front of him, so vibrant and full of life, welcoming him like they're old friends - he hadn't expected _this_.

She's as different to Brendan as it's possible to be. It's not just the obvious, not just that she's human. It's that she's entirely unguarded. Every conversation with Brendan that he's had so far has felt full of riddles, has felt like it's a test he has to pass.

It's the colour too, what she's wearing. He's only ever seen Brendan in black and white. Cheryl seems to be in everything _but_ black and white.

"Cheryl?"

"Told you about me, has he?" She smiles then and starts talking - some of it Ste takes in, but most of it goes over his head as he stands there, trying to process this. They can't be related. It doesn't make sense.

The next thing he's aware of is her tutting, then apologising. "I've been going on, haven't I?"

"No," he says. Some of what she's said is filtering through: he's sure it included a lot of _my brother_ this and _my brother_ that. "No, not at all." He tries to match her smile, is sure that he fails spectacularly.

"Joining us, are you?"

"What? No, I'm -"

"Bren's out at the moment, but you're welcome to come and wait till he gets back."

 _Bren?_

"No, that's fine. I've got to get going, really."

He thinks that's the last of it. He's already walking away in a daze - _Bren_ , fucking _Bren?_ \- but her voice pulls him back, and then her hands are on him, steering him. She's surprisingly strong, or maybe it's him. Maybe he's weak.

He's protesting, _I've really got to get going_ , but it must sound half hearted because she keeps pulling him, and then the door's closing behind them and he's inside Brendan's flat.

He's learning today that nothing is what he expects.

It's _homely_. That's the only way he can describe it. There are two sofas inside, one facing the television and one near the door. They're both filled with cushions, and one of the sofas is covered in a throw, leopard print in design; Cheryl's choice, Ste guesses, unless Brendan's got a surprising taste in decor that he's managed to hide.

There are shoes near the door too, including a pair of men's pointed black boots that looks like they've been freshly polished.

Despite the rain outside the room is flooded with light.

"You must be freezing."

Ste turns at the sound of Cheryl's voice, dragging his gaze from appraising the room.

"Do you want something to change into? I could get one of our Brendan's t-shirts for you."

"No, don't worry." The thought of wearing Brendan's clothes unsettles him. "It's not even that bad." He's lying - his hair is dry after being under the hood, but he's soaked everywhere else, shivering with it.

Cheryl must not be convinced. She fusses over him, insists that he take off his jacket. He does it gingerly; not only does he feel colder as he does it, but he remembers what he's wearing. There's a mirror opposite from where he's standing, and for the first time he sees the shirt he's wearing clearly, as though from new eyes. Bright yellow. Fuck.

"I'll make some tea, warm you up a bit. How do you take it?"

He's tongue tied. He doesn't understand what's happened; he was meant to confront Brendan with what he knows, find some proof against him, make him more likely to lash out so Ste could finally, _finally_ get this thing moving and end it once and for all.

He wasn't meant to be having tea with the rotter's sister.

"Are you okay?" Then she laughs, startles him. "I just realised I don't even know your name."

She waits, and he does too: does he tell the truth? If Brendan doesn't come back for hours then maybe he can escape from here without him ever knowing he came. He could give a fake name.

It's more lies; lies on top of lies.

"Ste. Four sugars, ta."

"Four?"

He shrugs. "Like it sweet. Some milk too please."

He doesn't know why he's bothering with being polite. Her brother will be dead soon, and he'll be the one to do it.

He stares at the door as Cheryl makes the tea. Brendan's going to come in any moment: that's what's in his head, and it makes his stomach feel like it's in knots. He sits at the very edge of the sofa, just perches on it, his back straight and rigid.

From what Brendan said he's only been living here for a few weeks, but he already seems to have made a space for himself, made it personal. There are touches around the flat - things that you could miss if you weren't looking for them, but Ste notices them. A jacket hanging on the chair. A smell of cologne that lingers in the air. A tie on the other sofa.

He shouldn't be here.

"Here you go."

Ste jumps. Cheryl's standing behind him clutching two mugs of tea, and that's not all that she's holding. Tucked underneath her arm is a vest in a faded grey colour.

"Here, put this on. Sorry, I tried to get a t-shirt but they must all be in the wash, and I didn't think you'd want a proper shirt."

"I'm fine. My clothes are nearly dry now."

She frowns, gives him a once over.

"They're wet right through. You must be cold, come on. Brendan won't mind."

"No, really." Ste gets to his feet, feels his face flushing. He moves so apruptly that Cheryl almost spills the tea. "I can't."

"You can. I insist. I won't have a mate of Brendan's freezing to death on my watch."

He's about to tell her to stop exaggerating, but she steals the breath from him; puts the tea down on the table and then marches him through past the kitchen, pulls him by the arm and maneuvers him into a room just off from the kitchen. She begins tending to him, brushing down his shirt like by doing so she can make him warm again. It reminds him of something a mother would do; not his mother, but someone else's.

He could pull away, push her off - but what if he pushes her too hard? What if he hurts her?

He stands still.

"I'll give you some privacy." She winks at him, closes the door. He can hear her humming behind it.

Less than an hour he's known her.

He takes his shirt off. Cheryl's right, it's soaked through, and his hands get wet when he bunches it into a ball. The vest is massive on him - he looks in the mirror and he's swamped by it - but the warmth he gets from it is instant, like the heating's been turned on.

He intends to go back outside, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and he starts to wonder if he's just been directed into Brendan's room. He can't miss this opportunity; something could be here, some piece of vital information that he needs to bring him down.

He crosses over to the wardrobe, opens it but there's nothing inside, just empty hangers. There's nothing in the drawers either. There doesn't seem to be much of anything beside the essentials - a bed, a bedside table, a lamp.

Disappointed, Ste abandons the attempt and instead sees what state he's in. His hair's been flattened by the rain; he tries to style it a bit, make it more presentable. He can barely look at his body. He rarely shows his arms, only wears something sleeveless when he's going to bed, and even then he doesn't often look in the mirror. But he can't avoid them now, can't avoid how skinny they look. His shoulders look pointed, as though the joints are jutting out.

He turns from his reflection, wishes that he had a clean jumper to put over himself.

He doesn't want Cheryl thinking that he's snooping. She's on the sofa when he returns, sipping her tea like they're having a long awaited catch up. He joins her, sits next to her when she pats the place beside her.

She makes a good cup of tea. He needs the sugar; it steadies him, makes him feel alive again.

"Bren's just popped to the shops. I can text him if you want, see exactly when he's coming back."

"No, don't worry." He tries not to sound as urgent as he feels. "I can catch up with him another time."

Popped to the shops. So he does go shopping. Ste wonders what it's for - a food shop, or is he buying clothes? He still can't picture it.

"How long have you two known each other?" Cheryl asks.

It's story time. He's good at stories, good at make believe; he's had enough practice with Leah and Lucas, and he spun Amy the story about it being a rabid he has to kill. He can do this.

"Couple of weeks." Not a lie. They say that makes it easier, don't they? If you stick as close to the truth then you don't fall into a trap.

Cheryl nods, looks encouraged like she's pleased, like she's _happy_.

"Met through the pub, did you?"

"The pub?"

"Brendan's always going there."

"Really?" He's never seen him there before, not the local. But he has to come up with something: he can't say that he met Brendan through the HVF. Cheryl will never believe that he'd voluntarily become friends with a rotter if he's someone who's been assigned to keep them in place.

He's glad that he forgot his gun.

"Yeah. We just got talking, you know?" He doesn't think she'll buy this crap, but she's eating it up.

"I can't tell you how pleased I am."

"Pleased?"

"After everything that happened before... Well, I didn't think he'd find someone to... I'm glad he found you." For the first time she's faltering, slipping over her words.

"Right." He swallows, resists the urge to ask what happened before.

Cheryl must see the confusion in his face.

"He didn't tell you?"

He shakes his head. "No." He doesn't prompt her; if he's going to find out then he needs to not be pushy about this.

She stares down at her tea, gets the spoon from the table and stirs.

"It was all a bit..." Whatever it was, it seems to be a bad memory. It's like a cloud passes over her before her face lights up, a smile painted on. "But that's over now. And you look..." She looks him up and down. "How old are you?"

"Twenty one." He doesn't know where this is going.

She laughs. "Young, aren't you?"

"No." He feels irritated; first Veronica thinking he's sixteen, now this. Fucking cheek of it.

"Not that I'm judging. You're gorgeous, aren't you?"

He splutters. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever." He drinks his tea, does it because he needs to do something. _Gorgeous?_ Brendan had never told told him that his sister's a nut job. Who even does that? Who even just says that like it's the most casual thing in the world?

The tea hasn't cooled yet. It burns the roof of his mouth. He winces, tries to disguise it because he doesn't need any more of Cheryl's fussing.

"That a spare room in there?" He says. He doesn't know what makes him say it - perhaps he needs a safe topic, a question which will give her a reason to talk about something that doesn't make him feel so on edge.

"Yeah. We use it for when the kids come."

"Kids?"

"Brendan didn't tell you?" She looks at him for a second, and it's like his heart stops beating. He's sure he can feel her sussing him out. He's fucked up.

But then the moment passes, and she shrugs like she's justifying it to herself.

"It hurts him sometimes, to talk about them."

"They're... they're his?"

Ste had mentioned his own, had talked about Leah and Lucas. Brendan had never said anything.

"Yeah. Declan and Paddy. They're back home with their Ma."

Two kids.

"They don't speak much, what with... you know, the difficulties with him and Eileen."

Ste nods like he's clued in. Eileen - the kids' mum, he assumes. He doesn't dare add a comment, doesn't want Cheryl getting more suspicious that he doesn't know anything.

"Sorry, I'm going on again aren't I?"

"Not at all." He doesn't want her to stop talking. He's learning more about Brendan now than he'd found out in an hour locked with him in the treatment centre. "So do the kids come to stay a lot then? Declan and Paddy?" It's strange saying their names. _Kids_. Brendan has kids.

"Not yet." Again there's that cloud that overshadows everything. "But he's hoping they will one day. We both are."

That explains the lack of clothing, the lack of anything personal. It hadn't looked like anyone had ever touched anything in the room.

Maybe it's not just because Brendan's a rotter that his kids don't want to visit. The aggression, the rudeness, the complete inability to form relationships - Ste can't imagine anyone wanting to spend time with someone like that. And there's nothing to say that Brendan's any different around his children.

"Feel better, do you?"

"What?"

"Warmer?" Cheryl says. "I can put the heating on if you want."

"No, that's alright. I should be going anyway." He's outstayed his welcome. The longer he stays the more Cheryl will remember his face. If she sees him with the HVF then she'll put the pieces together, might find out why he's really round here.

"What about Brendan?" She rises when he does. The longer he looks at her, the more he can't see any resemblance between her and Brendan. She doesn't look like him - even when he's got contacts in and cover up mousse on - and even their accents sound different. She acts like she wants Ste here; Brendan acts like he'd happily put a bullet through his head.

He has to go.

He should have known. He should have _fucking_ known. He's never been one of the lucky ones. Fate, timing, all of it - it's never been on his side.

He's got his hand on the door when he hears the rattling of keys.

His first instinct is to hide. He doesn't care that Cheryl's here, doesn't care that she'll think he's insane for running away. He's going to do it, going to go to the spare room and push his way under the bed. He'll do whatever he has to; try and go out the back door, hide in every corner of the house until he can get out unscathed.

He'd rather be a coward and stay alive than be killed by a rotter.

It's too late. He's too late.

Brendan stares at him. His keys are still in the door, his hand frozen. He's about to lunge at him, Ste can tell. He leans backwards as a result, but then Brendan looks past him and sees Cheryl. Something about her makes him stop.

He picks up the keys, steps into the room and looks stiffly between them. He's wearing the mousse and contacts. It's disarming; he almost looks like any other brother coming home.

"What's going on?" He's working hard to keep the anger and shock out of his voice.

"This is good timing, isn't it?" Cheryl smiles, looks at both of them.

Ste swallows. It could go either way here. He knows hardly anything about Cheryl. She could easily approve of the way Brendan is. Who's to say that she would stop him if he tried to kill Ste right this second? Maybe this nice act has been exactly that - an act.

"This looks..." Brendan stares down at the two mugs of tea that are still on the table. "Cute."

It sounds threatening when he says it.

"Want me to make you one, Bren?" Cheryl looks at Ste. "He has three sugars in his. Awful, the pair of you."

How has this happened? How are they being included in something together, like they're part of something?

Both of them laugh uneasily. Cheryl seems oblivious, busying herself with asking about Brendan's day. Ste hardly takes in any of it. He can't register anything; his palms are sweating and his pulse feels erratic. The hairs on his arms stand on end as he looks at Brendan, wonders how long he's got left to live.

"Sure." The rotter drags his eyes off Ste, looking at his sister properly for the first time since he's entered the flat. "Tea, three sugars."

"Great. Give you two a chance to catch up, won't it?" Cheryl says, looking between them, grin a mile wide.

Brendan smiles, tight lipped.

"I can't wait."


	9. Chapter 9

This is a nightmare.

He's going to wake up. He's going to wake up screaming in his bed, sweat soaking the sheets, eyes wide and alert, breath rattling in his throat. The relief will filter through to his body slowly, inch by inch until eventually all he'll be aware of is that he's safe, that he's home, that he's protected.

The moment hasn't come. The relief hasn't reached him yet. For now he's still trapped.

How long does it take to make tea? He feels like Cheryl's been in the kitchen for hours. She isn't just making a cup for Brendan, she's making one for all of them. Ste can hear the tapping of a spoon against china, and the sound of her opening various cupboards. Her heels are loud against the linoleum floor, the clip clop of them making Ste feel a dull ache in his head.

Everything feels heightened. Every noise, every touch, every time he brushes his arm against the pillow beside him. Maybe he's holding onto all of it; remembering every detail, because he's not entirely sure that he'll be around to experience it all for that much longer.

He feels more certain now that Brendan won't kill him in front of his sister. He'd have done it already if he was going to, and there's something different about him when he's around her. Ste can sense it almost instantly. It's an act - it must be, Ste's sure of it - but it's a well crafted act. Brendan's perfected it. He's so good at acting _good_ that Ste almost buys it himself.

He's sitting opposite Ste on the other sofa. He isn't perched on the edge like Ste is; instead he's lounging back, stretched out, legs spread like he's got nothing to fear. A _fuck you_ to Ste's nervousness.

He's trying to intimidate him. Staring at him, hardly blinking, just focusing. There's an accusation there, a threat, but every time Cheryl turns towards him he stops; looks away, smiles at her, asks her about her day. The minute she gets distracted again it's back to the status quo, and he becomes a lifeless statue again, his attention diverted solely towards Ste.

 _Why didn't he bring his gun? How could he have forgotten it?_

"Listen..." He has to say something. He's not naive enough to think that by doing so he's breaking the ice - this was never going to be that easy - but he can't stand the silence any longer. "I didn't... I'm just here because..."

Because what? What can he even say? He can't tell Brendan the truth, not now, not with his sister in hearing distance. His plan had been to confront him about Veronica. That's it. No one else has to get involved in this.

"Is that my vest?"

"What?"

He'd forgotten. Cheryl must have turned on the heating; it's warm in the flat now, so warm that he hadn't even remembered that he wasn't wearing his own clothes.

Brendan leans forward, points a finger up and down.

"That vest. Is that mine?"

Ste stares down at it, touching the fabric, bunching it into a fist.

"No."

"No?"

"Yes. I mean... yes, it's yours."

"Explain."

"It was cold, right, and raining - well you must have known, because you've been out, haven't you, but - but anyway, so I didn't have an umbrella or anything, and my hood only kept my hair dry, so -"

He's stumbling, caught up in his words, making a fool of himself.

"Get to the point." The rotter rubs at his temples, closes his eyes.

"Right, so... I came here, and I was really wet, and your sister, she said it was okay. And I tried to say no, but..."

He doesn't know why it's so important to him that Brendan doesn't think he had any say in this. If he's going to kill him then he's going to kill him; Ste wearing his vest isn't going to make a difference either way. Now that he's saying it it seems stupid - he _could_ have said no. He could have stopped Cheryl. She wouldn't have forced him.

He uncurls his hand from the vest.

"You can have it now, if you want."

"You going to wash it first, or..."

Ste frowns. "I smell a lot better than you. I'm not dead for one thing, so."

There's no reaction. Not a flinch. Not a smile. Nothing.

"Take it off."

Ste stands. It's petty and ridiculous - it's a fucking _vest_ \- but he's not about to get into a fight over it. They've done enough fighting already.

Besides, he's looking forward to the few seconds of being away from the rotter.

"I'll just -" He turns to leave, to head towards the spare room.

"Where are you going?" Brendan stares up at him. Even from this height Ste still feels like the rotter's towering above him, reducing him to something small from a single look.

"Going to get changed. You asked me to." He's losing his patience now. Riddles, again. Feeling like he's taking a test, again.

"I said get changed. Now. Here."

Ste looks behind him. He can see two cups of tea already made on the countertop, and Cheryl's pouring the third. Brendan's keeping his voice low, enough for her to not be able to hear anything.

Brendan's voice pulls him back.

"I'm not having you walking around my house."

"I'm not going to do anything."

Brendan laughs. "There's plenty in here that a lad like you would want to steal."

" _Steal?"_ He's louder than he ought to be, but he doesn't care if Cheryl hears. He _wants_ her to hear, wants her to know what an asshole her brother is if she doesn't already. "What do you think I am?"

He feels hot all over. It's not possible though. He tells himself this, tells himself so he'll calm down. It's not possible that Brendan knows anything about his past. How could he?

"Can't take chances."

"I'm not changing in front of you." He knows why Brendan wants him to do it, knows that he'll use his insecurity to get more power over him.

Brendan looks at him, considering.

"Fine. Keep it."

He hadn't thought it would be that easy.

Brendan mutters something.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Ste could have sworn he heard _chicken arms_ somewhere in that sentence.

He crosses his arms, leans away. He's suddenly all too aware that he's in a rotter's house, wearing a rotter's vest - a far too big vest, one that almost drowns him - and he doesn't have the slightest idea what he's going to do next.

He's saved by Cheryl joining them, balancing the cups of tea on a tray. She's added a plate of digestive biscuits to the side. Brendan's favourites, apparently.

Ste takes a biscuit, dunks it into his tea.

"Our Brendan will have your eye out for that one."

Ste takes the biscuit out, some tea dripping onto his trousers. He brushes it away hurriedly, hoping the others haven't seen. Hoping that Brendan hasn't seen.

"Don't look so alarmed, love!" Cheryl laughs. "Brendan has a technique, that's all. Tell him, Bren. I'm surprised you haven't already."

Ste's shocked to see Brendan looking bashful, almost embarrassed. It's only for a split second, and when he sees Ste looking his expression changes, reverts back to form.

"It's not a technique, Chez."

 _Chez?_

"Go on, tell him."

Brendan sighs, looks put out. He doesn't tell her to leave it though, or to shut up like he would with everyone else. It's strange seeing him like this. Softer around the edges, if only for a moment.

"You don't dunk it in like that, okay? It ruins it, everyone knows that."

"Ruins what?" Ste says. He can't believe they're talking about tea.

"The biscuit. The tea too. You don't want bits of it floating in the tea. Fucking nasty."

"Language," Cheryl scolds, and she gives him a playful slap around the head, hand barely grazing him.

Ste's sure that he sees him smile before it vanishes.

"You don't want a soggy biscuit ruining your tea. You've got to wait for it to cool, or only dunk it for two, three seconds maximum."

"Right, that's... Ta." Ste doesn't know what to say. What is he _doing_ here? What was he _thinking?_

"So, tell me about how you two met."

Brendan doesn't say anything. He's leaving it up to Ste, then, to lie.

"I told you, it was just... We met at the pub, didn't we?" Ste looks at him, needs the confirmation that he's going to play along.

"I know that, but the _details_. I want to know everything."

Fuck. Ste hadn't realised that Brendan's sister was going to be so nosy. Does she do this to all Brendan's friends - what she thinks are friends, anyway - demanding that they tell her the time, the place, the dialogue of their first meeting with her brother?

Maybe she's not used to him having any friends. Maybe that's what this excitement's about.

She seems to have picked up on the silence.

"Sorry, I'm going on aren't I? It's just it's been ages since Brendan -"

"Chez." Brendan stands, clears his throat. "Me and Steven here, we've got some catching up to do. Private stuff, you know? Business."

"Business?" Ste doesn't have to look at Cheryl to know she's smiling. "Is that what they call it these days?"

He hears Brendan laugh. There's an uneasiness about it that Ste can't define; he feels like he's entered a parallel world where nothing makes sense. One minute they were talking about tea, and the next they're speaking in riddles again, only it's worse this time because it's not just Brendan - his sister's in on it too, talking about something that Ste has no understanding of.

Before he can ask he looks up to see Brendan steering Cheryl away. He's talking in a hushed tone too quiet for Ste to hear, and he doesn't take his hand off her back until they're in the kitchen.

Ste watches, can't help himself. There's something almost fascinating about seeing the rotter in his natural habitat, away from Warren and the HVF. The orange tint of the cover up mousse is noticable, and there's still the rings of dirt covering his fingernails, but if Ste didn't look so hard then Brendan could almost seem normal.

He stares as Brendan leans over and kisses Cheryl on the cheek. She smiles at him. Ste expects her to disappear, to go to the spare room or upstairs to her own. He's shocked when she makes a grab for the jacket that's draped over a chair and the keys on the table.

She's going. Brendan's said something to her, made her think that leaving them alone together is a good idea.

Ste can feel himself begin to panic. He puts his cup down before it spills or he breaks the china. He stands, does it slowly because he's beginning to feel like he's not completely rooted to the floor, like he could fall or fly and there would be no one to steady him.

 _Say something. Keep her here._

He can see Brendan watching him. Ste knows that if he says anything, if he even tries to get Cheryl to stay then he'll do something. What that'll be Ste doesn't know - attack him, kill him? - but he knows that he won't stand by and let it happen.

It feels like everything's happening in slow motion. He sees Cheryl walking to the door, putting her coat on, putting the keys in her pocket. She's saying something to him, _bye_ , _it's been lovely to meet you_ , and then she winks, and then she's gone.

Silence. Stillness. Ste's still on the sofa, still sitting there.

A fraction of a second. That's all it seems to take for him to be standing, his feet leaving the floor, a firm pair of hands gripping the back of his vest as he's spun in the air and hauled against the wall.

He lets out a yelp of pain at the force of the impact, his ribs hitting the surface.

Then he's begging. _Please_. He despises himself for it, but he knows he wants to survive, and without being armed this is all he has.

"What are you doing here, Steven?" Brendan's close to him, directly behind him, hands getting tighter around his wrists.

"I came to -" He's gasping, words fractured as Brendan increases the strength of his hold. "I wanted to talk to you."

"Talk to my sister, you mean?"

"I didn't know she'd be here." It's a weak excuse; Brendan had told him he'd be staying with Cheryl. Ste had known there was every chance that it would be her who would open the door.

"How did you know where I live?"

"I know where all of you live, don't I? We have records."

Brendan's nails are digging into his skin.

" _All of you?"_ Brendan mocks, voice twisting.

"Rotters," Ste says, spits it because he wants Brendan to hurt like he's hurting, and it's easy, _so_ _easy_ to group them all in together. He's been doing it for years, so why not now?

He's spun round, made to face Brendan. The rotter's hands are placed either side of Ste against the wall; Ste could make a run for it, but he knows he wouldn't get very far.

Brendan's moustache looks even longer from this close up. Ste would laugh at it in any other circumstance, but he finds himself trembling, waiting for Brendan's next move. He wishes he was facing the wall again. He'd rather not have to look at him, see his eyes vivid with anger. Brendan's sweating, the cover up mousse disintegrating because of it, his natural skin colour showing through and displacing the normality which Ste thought he'd momentarily seen. Maybe it's the fury, but even with his disguise he looks more like a monster than a man.

He jabs at Ste's chest between words.

"What are you doing here?"

"I told you -"

"You wanted to talk to me. Well talk, Steven."

To lie or tell the truth? He'll have to come clean - he can't even think of a fabrication for why he's come here.

"I know about your work."

There's no inkling of understanding, no change in Brendan's expression.

"Veronica told me."

There's a shift at the name. Ste's sure he sees it: a twitch, maybe, almost imperceptible but Ste sees it before it's gone.

"Don't try and fob me off and tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, alright? I know. I saw you calling her."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He's almost convincing. He keeps his voice neutral, makes sure he doesn't rise to it, but he's not getting out of this. Ste didn't imagine that phone call, the sight of Brendan's name flashing across the screen. How many other Brendan Brady's could there be?

"She told me everything." He says it with the highest air of confidence he can. If he pretends that he knows all the details then Brendan might slip up, confess everything.

The rotter doesn't look scared like Ste thought he would. He seems to be thinking it over, searching Ste's face like he's looking for answers. Ste tries to keep completely still, to not reveal anything.

"Veronica."

"Yeah," Ste says, uneasily now because this wasn't the reaction he was expecting. "She gave you up, so."

"What were you doing with her?"

"What?" It's a line of questioning that makes him nervous. He hadn't even thought of a cover story for it.

"How do you know her?"

"She..." He can't concentrate with Brendan's eyes on him. The rotter senses that he's struggling; he's smiling like he's seeing a man's downfall play out in front of him. "She's a mate."

"A mate? Really?" There's a sardonic edge to his words. "Where did you meet her?"

"None of your business."

"Quite an interesting _mate_ to have, isn't she?"

Ste doesn't say anything; everything he does say seems to be making the situation worse, entangling him deeper.

"Attractive, isn't she?"

"So you do know her?" He feels triumphant like he's just proved something.

Brendan stands back, starts slowly pacing up and down the hallway. The distance should make Ste feel more free, but he feels like a caged animal. He's never not aware of how far he is from the door.

"What would the lovely Amy say if she knew?" Brendan almost sounds like he's talking to himself, voice low, reflective.

"What are you on about?"

"Close friend is she, this Veronica?"

"No, she..."

"Why were you looking at her phone?"

"I just saw it, didn't I. I was with her, and I..."

"Why were you with her?"

Ste wets his lips, Brendan following the movement.

"I wasn't _with her_ with her." He's making this worse. He's drawing attention to it all, making it sound even more suspicious.

"The mother of your kids sitting all at home while you're with your _mate_." Brendan shakes his head. "Not very nice, is it?"

" _Nice_? You know what's not very _nice_ , Brendan - you beating me up every time I see you. That's not very _nice_ , is it?" His hands have turned into fists by his side.

Brendan gives a short, sharp laugh.

"Beating you up? I don't remember this. Please, enlighten me."

"The first time we met you -"

"Put you in your place after you came to kill me."

Ste's blood runs cold. He's sure he sees Brendan looking at him like he knows - like he knows exactly what Warren wants him to do - but then the moment passes, and Brendan looks away, and Ste isn't sure what the hell he saw, or what's real.

"That's all it was," Brendan says, so casual that they could be back with Cheryl again having tea. "Least I could do, don't you think? After what you were going to do to me."

"No, that's... That's my job."

Brendan smiles again, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "That's okay then."

Ste's about to argue, about to say that that's not what he meant, that it doesn't make it okay, that none of this is okay, but he stops himself. He shouldn't need to justify it. He shouldn't care. He doesn't - he _doesn't_ care.

"So, back to this _Veronica_. Been telling tales, has she?"

"Just tell me how you know her. Is she... is she your girlfriend?"

He still wonders if her talk about work was all a cover, and she just didn't want Ste to know that she has a boyfriend who's a rotter. But something about it doesn't fit. If she was Brendan's girlfriend then Brendan would be on him like a ton of bricks. He'd care more than he does now, standing opposite him, composed and asking him questions, making Ste the flustered one.

"What makes you think that?" He looks at him in a way that makes Ste feel self conscious. How does he do that? How does he look at you and make you feel like he's seeing right through you? "Your flies are undone, by the way."

"What?" Ste looks straight down, hands immediately going to his trousers. He checks - double checks - and looks up again. "No they're not."

"Made you look."

Ste can feel his cheeks flushing with heat.

"Right, if you're just going to carry on taking the piss then -"

"Then what, Steven?"

"Ste. My name is _Ste_." It's a small detail in the grand scheme of things, but it seems like one of the only things he might have any control over right now.

Brendan ignores him. It's as though his words turn to dust.

"I don't think you have any right to issue orders." Brendan pauses, regards him, then adds pointedly, "Steven."

"You're wrong there." Ste bristles with a kind of faux confidence that doesn't quite reach the surface. "Because now I know, yeah? I know everything, and I'm going to go to Warren."

He sees Brendan waver; his twitches give him away.

"Why aren't you there now then?"

Ste hesitates. Good fucking question, Brendan.

"Why aren't you shouting your mouth off? Telling your puppeteer everything?"

"My what?"

"He pulls the strings, doesn't he?" Brendan smiles. It reminds Ste of a clown's smile: unnatural, almost frightening in the way his lips stretch like they're being worked out of shape.

"Shut up."

"Touched a nerve, have I?"

It's time to get to the point. He's not here to have a sparring match, or to be beat down by Brendan's judgement of him.

"I can't wait till he finds out all about your work."

He watches Brendan carefully. The rotter's good - his mask doesn't slip. He doesn't try and look away. Instead he cocks his head to the side, looks almost amused.

"And what work would this be? I'm guessing you're not talking about spending eight hours a day with that idiot." He clicks his fingers likes he's trying to think of something. "What's his name? Dark haired guy, scar on his forehead. Your surrogate daddy."

"Tony? He's not my..." He wonders how Brendan would even come to that conclusion. He's only seen him and Tony together a couple of times. _Surrogate daddy?_

"Antony, that's it."

Brendan has a way of changing the subject easily; taking Ste off on tangents, making him distracted.

"I'm talking about your work with Veronica," he says, determined to keep this on track. He's guessing that his previous belief that he could fool the rotter into telling him everything is pointless. Brendan's not stupid. If he tells him anything then it'll be of his own accord, not because Ste talks his way into getting information out of him. "You know you're not allowed to work and be in the employment project."

"Slipped my mind."

"Don't be stupid. If you haven't told us what work you're doing then there must be a reason why."

"What reason would that be?"

Why does it feel like Ste's the one on trial here?

"I don't know..." He trails off, realises how incompetent he sounds. Here he is doing the accusing, but he doesn't even know what he's trying to accuse the rotter of. "Something dodgy, okay? Something... something not... good."

He's almost relieved when Brendan doesn't laugh at him. He'd deserve it.

"That hurts, Steven. That really hurts." He steps forward, shakes his head slowly. Ste tries to move backwards but there's nowhere to go - he's flat against the wall, can only turn his head away when he feels Brendan's breath on his cheek. He doesn't smell like Ste thought he would; he'd expected something rancid, something that would speak of decay.

He smells of nothing. Just air, just heat, and the aftershave which Ste had smelled in the flat earlier. Ste had been wrong; he doesn't smell dead.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

Ste swallows heavily. He can hear it in Brendan's voice, that solid threat that suggests that he'll see this through.

"They'll find out. The Human Volenteer Force, they'll find out."

"I'm good at burying bodies, Steven. I've had plenty of practice."

 _Fuck_. Ste should have read more of his files, should have found out his history. Most rabids were discovered next to their victims. They didn't have the self control to even plan a burial. Ste doubts Brendan's any different, but he realises with a sinking dread that it wouldn't make any difference either way: he believes Brendan could do it, could kill him and hide his body and get away with the whole thing.

He tries to speak again, but Brendan puts a finger over his lips. His skin feels warm.

He hushes him. "You've had your one reason."

Ste speaks through the interruption, words muffled by Brendan's touch. It registers as a distant hum.

"Your kids."

Brendan draws his hand away. The layers of cover up mousse are still visible, that orange tint to his skin, but Ste's sure - _sure_ \- that he sees the rotter grow pale.

"I don't have kids."

Even if Ste didn't already know he'd fail to believe this. There's no conviction in Brendan's voice. He looks like he's been struck.

"Cheryl told me." For the first time Ste feels like he has the upper hand. There's a certain amount of gratification to it; he watches as the rotter struggles to hide his shock, hanging on to his every word like he's watching something horrifying unfold.

"No she didn't."

"She did though. Two boys, aren't they?" He tries to remember their names. "Declan, isn't it? Declan and -"

He shouldn't have said that. It's hit a nerve, something that Ste had expected, had even wanted, but he hadn't thought what would happen afterwards. Brendan's body collides with his, pins him back against the wall, presses close to him and knocks the wind out of him.

Ste twists and arches and protests, Brendan's pupils large and black, dilated with anger.

"Are you threatening them?"

"What?" It's more of a gasp than a word. "No, I'm not - I wouldn't -" That's not what he'd meant.

"Then what?"

He's riled him. He's made Brendan scared, properly scared in a way that he never was when he was trapped in that cage. It's something Ste hasn't seen before, and it shocks him enough to make movement impossible. All he can do is stand there, Brendan's hand firm against his chest.

"If you kill me then they'll know what you've done. You don't want that."

"Don't I?"

Ste knows it's dangerous what he's doing, putting words in Brendan's mouth, telling him what he's feeling.

"You want them to visit you, don't you? Cheryl said."

He expects Brendan to deny it: pretend that his kids mean nothing to him, use it as a means to get the upper hand.

"I know what it's like."

Brendan's eyes are still dark when he looks at him.

"You don't know anything. Nice little family setup you've got there, isn't it? Missus at home making your dinner every night, looking after the kids. Keeping your bed warm."

"I told you, we're not like that. We split up ages ago."

"Doesn't look like it to me."

Something unnerves Ste about the way Brendan says it; like he's seen them together, like he's been observing them.

"Your Cheryl won't be gone forever," he says, needs to keep this moving forward, needs to get the fuck out of here. His eyes dart towards the door.

He doesn't expect Brendan to let him go. He's still, an unmoving statue when the rotter draws back slowly, enough for Ste to get his breath back.

"Get out of here." The rotter's mouth barely moves when he says it. He's looking at the floor, looks like he's trying to control himself.

Ste doesn't do anything. It's a trick. It's got to be a trick. He'd entertained the fantasy of making it out of this place alive, but in his head it had been the result of a fight, something bloodthirsty. A foolish dream of Brendan being the one who would lose.

He'd never believed that Brendan would willingly let him walk out of here.

"I said get out of here." It sounds like a threat this time.

Ste grabs his jacket from the sofa, runs to the door.

"Steven?"

He turns back. This is where he finds out what the catch is.

Brendan's jaw is set, his face rigid.

"You say anything to Warren and I'll be paying a visit to your kids, yeah?"

Ste runs from the flat.

::::::

 _Go to Warren. Go right now, tell him everything you know. Tell him about Veronica, about the phone call from Brendan, about what she said. Tell him about how Brendan never denied that she's been doing work for him. Tell him about the threats. Tell him that you can't wait any longer, that Brendan has to die today._

He's heading towards the treatment centre. He knows Warren will be there now that he's got his new project. He'll be waiting for results of the tests, to see if the drugs the rotter took were solely responsible for turning it into a rabid.

He'd be an idiot to not tell him. Worse than an idiot - he'd be reckless, irresponsible. This isn't just about him any more. He's meant to be looking after people, setting an example, and if Brendan's lying about the work he's doing then he could be lying about everything else. If something happens - Brendan plotting something against them, planning to defy the HVF - then the blame will be on Ste's shoulders if he does nothing.

 _You say anything to Warren and I'll be paying a visit to your kids._

Was he lying? Ste can't tell. He knows that the rotter has no problem with being violent towards him. He can already feel the new bruises developing on his skin, the marks from where Brendan's hands had gripped him, the dark smudges from his ribs crashing against the wall.

Would kids be any different? Leah and Lucas, they haven't done anything wrong. They're innocent in all this, but that never stopped a rotter before, did it? Ste knows they've killed children in their untreated state before. He wishes more than ever that he'd looked at Brendan's file closely, had studied it in detail. He needs to know whether he's capable of doing what he's promised. And what about his personality, his life, what he was like before he died? What about _human_ Brendan? There's no evidence that he did questionable things then - things that would have got him in trouble long before he turned into what he is now - but there's no evidence that he didn't.

Brendan could have been a killer long before he died.

There's another thing: Warren's instructions to him. If Brendan doesn't kill him and everyone he loves for grassing him up, then Warren will. _Wait_ , he'd said. Wait for the dust to settle, for Brendan to do enough damage that the council will end up being relieved if he's found dead. Going to Brendan's house, talking to his sister, finding out personal details about him - it's everything Warren didn't want him to do.

He's going to have to go home. He knows it even before he's reached the sign for the treatment centre. He turns back, bunches his hands into his jacket pockets; he's freezing, and it takes him a moment to remember that he only has Brendan's vest on underneath, that he'd forgotten his wet shirt back at the rotter's flat.

He zips his jacket all the way to the top. Amy's perceptive - she'll notice if he comes home wearing someone else's clothes.

He's lucky, the flat's empty when he gets home. The kids are still at nursery and school, and Ste guesses from the emptiness of the fridge and cupboards that Amy must have gone shopping.

He needs the time to adjust, to process everything that's happened today.

He runs a bath, peels off his clothes. He winces as he does it, can feel the soreness from where Brendan's touched him. When he looks at his body in the mirror he sees that bruises haven't formed yet, but he knows they will. He'll have to be careful around Amy, make sure that she never sees them.

The water feels good against his skin; healing, almost. He's tempted to fill the bath until the water reaches his chin, but he knows Leah and Lucas will need the hot water for later. He tries to remember a time when he didn't have to worry about how much things cost. He can't.

He hasn't turned the light on. It's getting dark out and only a small amount of light penetrates through the window; he likes it, likes the way it calms him. He's going to wash himself but it hurts when he moves his wrists, so he lies back in the bath instead, closes his eyes and allows his mind to drift.

It seems impossible that he was on a date hours ago. Seems impossible that he was meeting Veronica for the first time, that he cared about something as simple as a relationship. Or not _simple_ \- not simple because it's never simple for him, is it? The first woman he's gone out with in months is connected to a rotter: not just any rotter, but Brendan.

He could try again. He could call Veronica, leave her a message. Maybe tomorrow when she's had time to calm down and is no longer as angry with him. He knows he's not meant to leave things like this, one shag and no contact ever again. She'll think he was only after one thing.

Closing his eyes like he is, he's able to recall in perfect detail the way she'd kissed him in the cinema. There had been nothing coy about it. The way she'd touched him, had stroked him through his trousers - that hadn't been coy either.

What if he was the one being used? What if she'd just wanted sex, nothing more?

He reaches an arm out of the bath. His skin's gone dry and wrinkled from the water. He feels around for his trousers, gets his phone out and leans over the bath to make sure he doesn't drop it in the water as he finds Veronica's number.

Straight to voicemail.

He sends a text: _Sorry about before. Maybe we can meet up again_ _sometime?_

He waits. When he next looks at his phone - half an hour later, he makes sure - there's still no reply. He knows he should give her time, but he already feels certain that he'll never hear from her again.

It bothers him. It bothers him that he doesn't care. It bothers him that their afternoon together is already slipping away, that he's letting it go, the details growing distant.

He washes himself, bites his lip through the pain until he can almost believe he doesn't feel it.

He changes into new clothes. If Amy asks him he'll tell her that he got soaked in the rain, that he's put his things in the wash. It's not a lie - he bundles the clothes in his arms, shoves them into the machine. The only thing remaining from this afternoon is the vest.

He could throw it in the bin, get rid of it completely. Its material is already faded, as though its been worn for years. Ste wonders if Brendan sleeps in it.

What if he comes back for it? It almost makes Ste laugh, the idea of the rotter turning up at his door, demanding that he give him his vest back. He wouldn't. He'd see the ridiculousness of it, surely?

He thinks of his own shirt that's still in the rotter's house. He wouldn't be above asking for it back. He paid for it after all, and it's one of the only smart things he owns. He should have remembered it; there's no chance he'll get it back now. The rotter's probably thrown it out already.

He's interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He carries the vest into his room, brings his phone with him and locks the door - a habit, even though Amy isn't home to overhear anything that she shouldn't.

Veronica. It'll be Veronica. He shouldn't have called her. He doesn't know what he'll say. If he says he wants to see her again, will she be able to tell that he's lying?

It was good though, wasn't it? _They_ were good. It was the first time for him in ages, and maybe that's why it felt different, as though he was outside his body, outside the room, why he couldn't let go.

He looks at the caller ID. Warren.

"Hello?" Warren's voice on the other end makes him realise that he hasn't said anything, that he's answered with silence. "Ratboy?"

"Yeah, it's Ste."

He hears the sound of laughter at the other end of the line. Warren finding his slowness amusing, as usual.

"Drinking during the day, are you?"

"No. I'm fine. I'm -"

"Listen, change of plan."

"What?" The urgency makes him nervous.

"We're not meeting at the pub tomorrow. Come and see me first."

"Where?"

"At my house."

 _His house?_ Ste can't remember ever being at Warren's house. He's sure he's never even been to the same street.

"I'll message you the details."

"Don't worry, I'll get them off Tony." He'd rather they both go there together. He's not stepping into the lion's den by himself.

"Tony's not coming. Just you. See you tomorrow morning."

He hangs up before Ste can reply.

 _Change of plan. Warren's house. Just the two of them._

Ste sinks onto the bed, his fingers curling around Brendan's vest.


	10. Chapter 10

He's never able to escape the nightmares, but there's been a kind of quiet resignation about the ones he's had lately. They've been becoming almost predictable: he's trapped, unable to run, being cornered by a snarling rabid bearing its teeth at him. He loses his footing, stumbles and grows more frantic, the sweat dripping off him, his body jerking and shaking, unarmed and defenseless.

He'll wake up before he's killed. It'll take him a couple of minutes before he's calmed down enough that he's able to get out of bed, but for the rest of the day he can force it out of his mind, send it to a dark corner that sees no light until he dreams again.

Tonight is different.

He's back in that street again, that walk into town from the estate. It's silent, almost as silent as it was that night. Only the thudding of his heart's louder this time; it's as though he's sensing it, knows that something's about to happen. The predictability doesn't give him the comfort that it ought to.

The rabid isn't in front of him this time. It strikes Ste from behind, throws him across the pavement, makes him cry out from the pain. He gets to his feet slowly, mesmerised by the rabid's face, by the decay and the large chunks missing from it, like its face has been blown apart. It's a new detail that makes Ste's stomach churn. He stays motionless, sure he's going to be sick.

It's younger than he'd remembered, this rabid. He's sure that it had been at least ten years older than him, but its face - what's left of it - looks like it belongs to a teenager. Its body is strong, brought to life with the Blue Oblivion inside of it, but it's also slight, as though it's going through that awkward transitional phase between a boy and a man. It's tall, gangly, all out of control limbs.

Ste has his gun in his back pocket. It's almost a shock, as though the small part of him that realises that this is only a dream registers that he's armed for the first time, that the ending to this is going to be different.

Fear overrides it though. Fear because he has to pull the trigger, and he's made the mistake of looking at the rabid too closely, going against everything that he's ever done. _Never look them in the eyes._ They're barely what you would call eyes, but they're enough like them that it makes him slip up, makes his hands fumble over the gun.

The rabid's advancing on him. _Pull the trigger. Pull it now._

When the gun fires, the rabid that lands on a heap on the pavement is no longer a teenager. He's not the rabid that Ste killed weeks ago either, the one who he single handledly took on by himself, who he'd buried with Tony.

"Brendan."

Ste touches his shoulder, rolls him around to face him. His eyes are wide open, staring up at the sky. They're not like the eyes that were there a moment ago. They're his human eyes, so starkly blue that they don't appear real to Ste; neither does the warmth of his skin, or the way that some colour seems to be coming back into his face. The dirt around Brendan's fingernails which is ever-present is no longer there. The breeze from outside lightly blows the strands of his hair. His moustache looks soft.

For a second Ste wonders if he's brought him back to life. But when he calls his name there's no response.

::::::

He can't forget the dream. He can't forget it when he has a bath. He can't forget it when he gets dressed, or when he shaves the hint of stubble that's appearing above his upper lip. He can't forget it when he draws the curtains in his room and takes a swig of water from his bedside table, or when he sees that the rotter's vest is still stuffed at the back of his drawers where he'd left it.

He doesn't hear Amy saying his name in the kitchen when he makes his way there. When her voice filters through it sounds like it's echoing at him down a tunnel. He turns to her, watches her lips move, tries to sound out the words; turns away so that she won't see him closing his eyes, and then back again when he trusts himself enough to be able to listen.

"Good night last night, was it?"

He's made her worry. Her tone is light but he sees through it, sees through her.

He hums, _yes_ , rubs his head and waits for her to take the bait.

"Had too much to drink, did you?" There's a note of disapproval there, but it's better than her concern. A hangover she can deal with. A nightmare - _his_ nightmare - would scare her.

"Sorry. Got a bit carried away."

"I thought so. When I came back and found you crashed out -"

"Crashed out?"

"You were asleep on top of the covers at five o'clock."

"Shit. I'm sorry, Ames."

He imagines Amy coming back with the kids, seeing him spread out and having to do everything herself - run them a bath, cook dinner, put them to bed.

"Why didn't you wake me?" He wouldn't have blamed her for it. He would have deserved it.

"Thought you must have needed it. I hear you getting up sometimes in the night, and..."

"You hear me?" He's always thought he'd been careful: not putting on any lights, only running the tap lightly if he gets something to drink. Tiptoeing across the carpet.

"Sometimes I can't sleep either."

He looks at her. Has he been pretending the dark circles under her eyes don't exist? He's been telling himself that it's normal, that it's all part of having kids. They're both bound to be tired, aren't they? They're bound to get next to no sleep.

It worked when Leah and Lucas were younger, that excuse. But unless they're ill or having nightmares of their own then they sleep right through, have done for ages now.

He puts his arm around her for a second, takes out a bowl from the cupboard when he lets go.

He busies himself, makes breakfast and puts the kettle on, watches as the kids watch television in the other room. They're fixated on it; if he's let them down by not saying goodnight, then it doesn't show.

He knows Amy will ask. He almost wants to get it over with. He gives her the opportunity, doesn't bring up anything else to distract her with.

"How was it then?" She stirs her tea, is sat opposite him wrapped in her dressing gown, slippers covering her feet. He thinks about how bizarre this conversation would have been a few years ago. Regardless of what happened with Veronica yesterday, it feels like something of a triumph that they're able to talk like this at all.

"It was alright." Downplaying this is the way to go. He's not about to tell her any details that will hurt her. When she'd first started dating again there had been one question that had preoccupied him, the one thing he'd hated to think about, the one thing that he'd least wanted to know. The one thing that he'd most wanted to know.

Would it have been easier if he'd known back then? If Amy had simply told him whether she'd slept with the men that she'd gone on these dates with? Maybe it would have been like cutting a cord, and he'd have been able to move on quicker if he'd known either way.

Or it would have killed him.

"Only alright?" She's smiling like she's teasing him; she even touches his leg under the table with her slipper like they're playing a game. He doesn't completely buy it.

"I don't think I'll be seeing her again." He waits for the disappointment to come, but it doesn't. "Didn't really work out."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, just... you know, sometimes you don't..."

"Connect?"

"Yeah. Connect." He doesn't look up to see if Amy's secretly pleased by this.

"Sometimes it takes time."

He doesn't know how to explain that thanks to what he did, there definitely won't be a second date. He tries to avoid any more questions, gets his phone out from his pocket and looks at the message he received last night from Warren with the directions to his house. The address is unknown enough for Ste to see that it must be outside the village. Something tells him that Warren isn't like him - that the place he visits today, whatever it's like, won't be on an estate.

He make sure he tells Amy exactly where he's going before he leaves. He doesn't say anything that might startle her; just tells her that he's visiting Warren for a meeting, the barest details so that if he doesn't come back, she'll know who to tell the police is responsible.

"This meeting. Is it about, you know... the rabid?"

He can see she's been working up to saying this. All throughout breakfast she was tetchy, a bag of nerves after he'd told her about Warren wanting to see him. He'd been naive to think that she'd buried it in the back of her mind, what he's told her he needs to do.

He almost bites back at her, tells her to stop asking, to stop thinking that every time he leaves the house now it's for one reason only.

He looks at her. She's scared for him; that's all this is.

"No. It's about something else." The denial makes her feel better, but it makes anxiety pool in the pit of his stomach. It's the _something else_ that he's unsure about. "I won't be long. Tell the kids bye for me." He can't look at them before he leaves. He knows that if he holds them then he'll start to think that this is it, that he'll never see them again.

He gets the bus. When he looks out of the window he tries not to think that everything he's passing, everything he's seeing, is all going to be for the last time. There's a consolation of Warren inviting him to his house: Ste doubts that he'd choose to kill him in such an obvious place. If he's found out about Ste's visit to the treatment centre and wants to punish him for it - irreversibly - then he would do it somewhere where it couldn't be traced back to him. He won't want blood on his own carpet. He won't want to shift a body from his own home.

That's if Ste can trust that Warren's telling the truth, and that it is his house he's going to today.

::::::

It's not what he expects. It's not as big of a shock as seeing Brendan's house, but Ste still has to double check that he's got the right street.

Warren's house is close to a school. As Ste walks down his street he passes kids on their lunch break, the noise of them like a sudden assault of the senses. Ste was one of them once, hanging out on street corners, going to the local chip shop and getting whatever he could afford. Spending hours at the park with Amy and her mates, trying to convince her to give him the time of day.

It takes him a moment to separate the two: the kids he's passing and the adult he is now. He feels unlike them but unlike what he should be; he doesn't fit into the role he ought to, and it's disconcerting. When he hears the sound of laughter it's like they're laughing at him. He hurries past, looks at the house numbers until he sees the one he needs.

It looks spacious, homely from the outside. Again Ste doesn't know what he expected - something dark, something outwardly foreboding? But this wasn't it. He knocks in a hurry as though Warren might sense if he's tentative and use it to his advantage.

Footsteps. The door opening. Warren leaning against the wall and staring at him casually. He's dressed in a jumper and a pair of jeans. There's the usual greeting - _alright, ratboy_ \- before he summons Ste in, telling him to close the door behind him like Ste's never been to someone's house before.

Ste makes sure to wipe his shoes on the carpet, not to be polite but to show Warren that he knows how to be.

"Put your coat over there if you want." Warren gestures to the bannister of the stairs.

Ste keeps it on. It feels like a layer of protection.

"Thanks for inviting me over." He doesn't _feel_ thankful. He'd rather have done this somewhere public, somewhere they have an audience, but it feels like a natural thing to fill in the silence, something that he's expected to say, as does: "Nice house."

"Cheers." Warren nods like he's in agreement. He doesn't seem tightly wound, but Ste's still on edge. He knows how good Warren is at staying calm when he needs to. He could be working his way up to telling him that he knows all about his visit to the Bradys' house. It'll be one of his sick jokes: make Ste feel at ease, make him comfortable in his home, and then turn the tables.

"You okay?"

"Fine." Ste makes an effort to smooth out his face, wondering what he looks like. "Bit cold, isn't it?" He's shivering, can feel goosebumps on his skin.

Warren walks slowly across the floor, goes to what Ste assumes to be the heater and changes the settings.

"What's this about then?" Ste says when he's done.

"Straight to the point, aren't you?"

"I've got to go to work later, haven't I." He dreads to think of the afternoon of endless teasing that he's in for if he's late. Rhys and Jacqui will never let him live it down.

"Always such a hard worker."

"Are you taking the piss?"

Warren smiles. "Come on. I've got someone for you to see."

"What?" It throws him. He's spent enough time imagining what Warren could do to him without adding someone else to the mix.

"We've got a visitor."

"Who is it?"

"They're waiting in the basement."

Ste doesn't know whether to laugh or run.

"The basement?" He leaves the question hanging in the air, waiting for Warren to realise the stupidity of it.

He's blank faced.

"You've got a basement?" That's how the stories start, isn't it? Stories that kids used to pass around to scare each other.

"We keep it for storage," Warren says, and Ste doesn't know if the _we_ is him and Louise, the girlfriend that he's heard about in the past, but the explanation doesn't make him feel any better.

"No, that's alright. I'll stay here." He forgets about his forced politeness and drags out the chair that's closest to him. Before he can sit down he's yanked back from it, Warren's hands on his hoodie.

"Get down there. Now."

He should apologise. Tell Warren that he never meant to fuck things up with Brendan, that he didn't know what else to do, that he wasn't thinking. That whatever this is now - revenge, punishment, the end - that he'll do anything to change things. That he won't ever try anything like that again.

Before he can form the words he's being pushed. Warren opens the door to the basement, continues to hold onto Ste by his clothes as he guides him down the stairs. He's careful not to make Ste fall, but he's firm enough that there's no chance of escape.

There's only one light - already on - and it's dim enough for Ste to struggle to adjust for a moment before things come into focus. Warren wasn't lying when he said it was for storage. There are boxes everywhere, piled so high that if Ste fell into one they would all tumble down.

There can't be any other reason to bring him here than to intimidate him. He hates that it's working, hates that he wishes he could climb the stairs again and return to the brightness. There are no windows here, and the walls seem stronger somehow, more solid; if he were to shout for help he's not sure anyone would hear him.

He hears shuffling, a cough.

"You remember Danny."

It takes Ste a moment to place the man standing before him, black suit on, body slowly moving out of the shadows of the basement. His face is undoubtedly familiar, but Ste stares blankly as his mind frantically tries to make sense of what he's seeing.

Something clicks. _The pub._ Weeks ago before all of this had started, before Warren had ever asked him to get rid of Brendan. Danny had been sitting with the rest of the group, had been a mostly silent presence throughout the whole thing, and had then disappeared without a word or explanation, never to be seen at any of the follow up meetings. Ste had forgotten he existed, had erased him from his mind completely after that first time.

He's regretting asking Warren to turn up the heating. The room suddenly feels stifling, the walls closing in.

"Come on, take a seat." Warren nods over to one of the spare chairs. Ste sits down on the edge of it, can sense Danny staring at him as he tries (and fails) to make himself comfortable.

"You'll have a drink, won't you Ste?"

He could do with one, but that would mean Warren would have to leave the room, leave him and Danny alone together.

"No."

"Come on, you've got to drink something," Danny says, gives him a thin lipped smile. His voice is different than Ste had imagined; colder, harsher.

"It's not poison."

He and Warren laugh, but it does nothing to stop Ste from thinking that it could be.

"Just a coke. Ta."

"Danny? The usual?"

"Thanks." Danny doesn't look away from Ste, his hands clasped tightly together.

Ste hears the sound of Warren's footsteps as he leaves the room, whistling accompanying it. Then silence.

He's going to have to make conversation. They can't stay like this, and Danny seems to have no interest in being the one to start.

"You and Warren known each other long then?"

"Few years."

"Where did you meet?"

"Where do you think we met?"

Ste wonders if he's taking the piss.

"Don't know. A dark alleyway?" He laughs in his discomfort, waits for Danny to do the same - out of curtesy, if nothing else - but he remains straight faced, stoic.

Ste's laughter trickles off.

How long does it take to get a couple of drinks? He's never wanted to see Warren so much in his life.

"How did you get into the Human Volunteer Force then?" Ste guesses that Danny must have transferred from another city, because nothing in his demeanor speaks of a new member; he doesn't have the uncertainty about him, and there's been no group initiation process. Everything suggests that he's an old timer.

"I've been in the force my whole life."

"How old?"

Danny stares at him like he's stupid. "I just said, my whole life."

"Yeah, but... You can't have been in it forever." He'd put Danny in his thirties, maybe his early forties. He wouldn't have been that young when The Rising happened.

He seems to read Ste's mind.

"We were preparing for The Rising long before you were born." He doesn't elaborate. Conversation closed.

The silence gives Ste time to try and think why he's here; why Danny's here. Is Warren using him for extra support, to make sure that Ste stays meek and defenseless when they hurt him?

It's not Warren's style. He wouldn't ask for someone's help to do his dirty work.

The whistling starts again as the basement door opens and Warren makes his way back down. It's almost comforting this time around.

"Here." He passes the glass to Ste, has two beer bottles for him and Danny. They clink their bottles together, the sound the only thing that Ste can hear. They don't do the same to his glass.

"What's this about then?" He puts his drink down. He's not under the illusion that he's here to socialise, even if Danny and Warren are necking their beers back like they are.

"You want to do the honours, Danny?" Warren says.

Danny looks at Ste appraisingly, Ste struggling not to squirm under the spotlight. He shouldn't have worn a tracksuit. He shouldn't have worn his scuffed trainers. He should have done something with his hair; put some product in it, or at least made an attempt to tidy it up.

Danny's suit looks like it cost him more than Ste makes in a month.

"Anything to do with Brady, you report to me."

Ste looks from Danny to Warren. He can't imagine Warren surrendering control to anyone, but after a moment he nods.

"I don't get it. What do you have to do with Brendan? How do you know him?" None of this makes any sense. Brendan only moved here recently, and he already seems to be public enemy number one. The worst he's done is not wear cover up mousse and his contacts - nothing compared to some rotters in the past.

"He asks a lot of questions, doesn't he?" Danny says to Warren, and it's like Ste's not even there all of a sudden, like they've closed the door on him and are talking about how difficult he is, a nuisance.

"I have a right to know." He raises his voice - they fucking better know that he's going to be heard - and ignores his racing heartbeat that's warning him to stop. "If I'm going to be killing him then you need to tell me everything."

He seems to have finally found something to make Danny laugh.

He shakes with it; throws his head back and laughs like he has no control over it, laughs until even Warren looks uneasy.

It stops as suddenly as it starts, so swiftly that Ste wonders if he imagined it entirely.

"He's funny, this one. Gives you orders a lot, does he?"

"He likes throwing his weight around, yeah," Warren says.

He's cornered. None of this was ever about an agreement, or about negotiating the terms. He's here to do as he's told: to sit where he's allocated, to drink his drink, to kill who they've chosen him to kill.

Ste feels welded to the seat. He doesn't know what's safer - to be trapped here where he at least has some space from them, however small, or to be within distance of the door, where he could run but he could be stopped.

"Every week we'll meet at this house," Danny continues, Ste's interruption being ignored. "Same time, same day as today. Understand?"

"And do what?"

"You'll tell me about Brady. Tell me what he's said, what he's done. And we'll go from there."

It's all so fucking _vague_.

"What if he hasn't said anything though?" Danny and Warren seem to be thinking that the rotter's stupid, that he'll trip up easily. Ste's seen first hand how Brendan has a way of wriggling out of things; he's still no closer to finding out what work Brendan's doing with Veronica.

"He will," Danny says, no room for argument. "You haven't had your drink."

"What?"

"Your drink." Danny nods down at the glass that Ste's left on the table, untouched. "Go on."

"I don't..."

"Just drink it, Ste," Warren says, sounding tired by the whole thing.

Ste picks up the glass, can feel Warren and Danny watching him. Either something very bad is about to happen or this is a fucked up power trip.

He sips at it. It tastes normal but it would, wouldn't it?

He puts it down again.

"Can I go now?"

Warren looks at Danny for instruction. It's bizarre to Ste, seeing him need someone else's permission.

Danny's barely given his consent before Ste's up from his chair, making a beeline for the door. He needs to feel the fresh air on his face. It's not unlike how he felt at the treatment centre, locked in the cage with Brendan. Both times he's felt like an animal.

"Hang on."

Danny's voice stills his footsteps. The abrupt halt almost makes him skid across the floor as he tries to regain his balance.

He waits as Danny moves, until he's standing in front of him. He has a way of keeping his face smooth, almost devoid of expression, and then there's a light switch of fury, the anger hitting the surface. Ste waits for it.

Danny reaches out, holds out his hand.

"Come on," he says when Ste doesn't do anything. "This is a business arrangement. You've got to shake in business." It doesn't sound like something that's up for negotiation.

Ste shakes his hand. He means for it to be quick but Danny's grip is strong, and he doesn't let go straight away. His skin is cold, and when he lets go he brushes his hand against his trousers, wiping the trace of Ste away. He smiles at Ste as he does it: it's something he wants him to see.

Ste runs up the stairs, doesn't stop until he's out of the door and all the way down the street, Warren's house out of view.

::::::

There are hours to spare until he has to go into work. He kills time, gets some lunch from the chip shop and sits on the nearest bench he can find. He doesn't notice how slowly he's eating until the chips turn cold, and he tries to mask it by covering them with the sachet of ketchup he has.

Two hours he had to wait. When he finishes his food and looks at the time on his phone he's already fifteen minutes late.

It's just as he thought it would be. Jacqui and Rhys tut at him when he finally arrives at the meeting point, share some private joke about him that has them snickering behind his back like a couple of kids. Ste resists the urge to tell them to pack it in, that they can leave the flirting for outside office hours.

The rest of the group keep their mockery of him at a distance, but he can sense the shift in atmosphere when he arrives. They're not comfortable in his presence any more than he's comfortable in theirs.

He's forgotten his gun again.

"Come on. Hurry up, we're already late." He says it like it's their fault, like they're the ones slowing him down.

"Where are we going today?" Jacqui asks, does it like it takes effort to string the sentence together, so above him that she is. She's still wearing the large hoop earrings, the high heels, the eyeliner that looks like it's been drawn on with felt tip.

"The pub."

"Drinks on you then, boss."

The rest of them laugh. They have a tendency to do that, to act like whatever one of them says is the funniest thing on earth. Ste's attempts at jokes pass unnoticed. He's stopped trying to make them.

"We're picking up litter. Clearing out the pond."

A groan ripples through the group.

They wouldn't act like this if Warren was in charge. They wouldn't dare answer back. Talk about Warren with each other in private, yes - but never like this. They'd show him respect.

"Unless you want to leave right now? Because there's plenty of other rotters who'd love to make some money, do what you're doing." He looks at them all, almost hopes that one of them will speak out of turn so he has the excuse of losing it, kicking them out.

Jacqui looks like she could hit him. Rhys is sulking, the light gone from his eyes. The rest are staring hard at the ground, saying nothing.

"Thought so." He feels a surge of accomplishment. He's done that. _Him_. He's made them shut up.

He leads the way, walks out in front. He doesn't look behind him to make sure they're all still there like he usually would.

They start outside the pub. He knows Frankie won't want them all crowding inside, won't want to risk them scaring off the customers. It's cold enough for there to be only one person sitting by the pond, an elderly gentleman who immediately picks up his newspaper, opens it and sticks his head inside when he sees them approach.

On the way to his date with Veronica he'd thought about bringing her to this pub one day. He'd imagined them coming here in the summer, their legs leaning against the wall, their chairs turned to the pond. It wasn't much to look at, but Leah and Lucas liked it enough; they'd got in the habit of asking him to take them fishing there, although the most they'd ever reeled in was a bit of loose change that had collected there over the years.

Veronica still hasn't messaged him. He still hasn't messaged her.

It feels a long time until summer. His hoodie isn't any protection against the weather, and the material of his coat is thin. Even if some of the rotters weren't wearing just t-shirts he'd know that they don't feel the cold; it's something about them, something about the way they move and interact that suggests how unaffected they are by it all. There aren't any goosebumps on their skin. They don't draw their arms close to their chests, trying to get warm. He watches as they start to pick up litter, trying to pretend that he doesn't wish he could go inside where he knows the heating will be on, Frankie predicting what his order will be before he has to say anything.

He knows he'd feel warmer if he started helping them all. It would give him something to do, would make him feel more useful than standing here like a spare part, but Warren's instructions had been clear: Don't help. Don't lower yourself to the same standards as them.

So he sits. He finds a spot that ensures that he can see all of them clearly in case there's any trouble.

There's something uncomfortable about watching them. He sees the glances that Rhys and Jacqui throw him, clearly irritated at him taking a back seat, checking his phone whenever he thinks they're not looking, hastily stuffing it in his pocket when he finds they are. He doesn't know why it should bother him - it's his rules, he can do what he wants - but he feels caught in the act. He feels _lazy_.

He's in the process of wondering whether to delete Veronica's number when he hears the chair being scraped back next to him. It startles him enough to look up, thinking that he's going to see that Rhys or Jacqui - or both, as is their way - are taking advantage, assigning their own break.

It's a rotter, just not the one he was expecting.

Brendan leans back in his chair. He's wearing sunglasses, something that entirely contrasts with the miserable weather. They're thick black frames, aviator-style, and he's wearing a black leather jacket that clings tightly to his arms. Ste's noticed a pattern in everything he owns; it all looks like it struggles to contain him.

"Texting on the job."

"I wasn't texting." He was too startled by Brendan's arrival to remember to put his phone away. He does it now, looks towards the rest of the group afterwards. Some of them are looking his way now, frowning as they take in the sight of Brendan sitting beside him as though it's the most casual thing in the world.

"Trying to get in touch with that girlfriend of yours, were you?"

"I told you, Amy's not my -"

"Veronica," Brendan says, and Ste wonders when it was that Brendan made that shift, when he decided that Ste's been telling the truth about Amy all along. "Sorry," he continues, sounding anything but. "Not _girlfriend_. What's it called when you..." He clicks his fingers like he's trying to think of the word.

Ste looks out towards the pond, hopes that Brendan doesn't see how he's flushed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd come to my local, have a pint." He can't seem to keep up the pretense; he laughs at his own words, that manic edge to it that always seems to be there. Ste can't compute how this is the same man - _thing_ , not man - who was clearly so protective with his sister. So _normal_. "Get you a drink, shall I?"

Ste doesn't know if he's being serious.

"Steven?" Brendan says, leaning forward in his chair. "What do you drink?"

"You're not buying me a drink."

"Why not?"

"Because..." It's Ste's turn to laugh. Because this is ridiculous, that's why. He's sure that Brendan's trying to humiliate him.

He puts an end to it; turns away, doesn't look at him, keeps his voice cold.

"Shouldn't you be with Tony? If you've pulled a sickie then I'm going to have to report you. Warren will have to find out. You'll lose your job."

 _But you've got another one so you'll be fine, won't you?_

He doesn't say it, doesn't let Brendan know how much it's got to him that he still hasn't found out about what he's doing.

"And if you're wearing those sunglasses because you haven't got your contacts in then I'll have to report that too." He's on a roll now. He likes it, likes the satisfaction it gives him to feel like he's in control here.

"Wow. Wow, that's..."

Ste chances a look at him, watches as Brendan takes off his sunglasses. The contacts are there. The cover up mousse has worn away slightly from where the sunglasses have pressed against his skin, but it's still intact everywhere else.

He's about to apologise before he stops himself.

"There's a lot of reporting going on there, Steven."

Ste can't shake the feeling that he's being mocked openly now.

"Yeah, well..."

"No, you're right though. I should be grateful to have this job. We all should be, shouldn't we?" Brendan raises his voice, makes sure that the other rotters can hear. They're continuing to pick up litter but Ste can see them come closer, can sense them listening carefully to the whole thing. "After all, there's plenty of other rotters who'd love to make some money, do what we're doing. Isn't that right?"

Ste stands up, his chair almost flying back from the haste of it. He's face to face with Brendan, the rotter standing too, not shying away from Ste's anger.

"Were you listening to me? He feels a chill as he says it. He hadn't been aware of Brendan being here when he'd been talking to the group.

"Quite a rousing speech."

"Why were you listening, Brendan?"

The rotter shakes his head. "Yes, why was I listening? That's what you need to be asking yourself."

"You... you can't do that. You can't just..."

 _How_ is what he wants to know. How could Brendan have been there and he didn't notice a thing? How many other conversations has the rotter overheard and Ste's had no idea?

He feels hot with shame.

"I've got work to be getting on with." He puts his chair back in place, makes sure that the group know that the show's over.

He takes his phone out, dials Tony's number. He should have done this from the start, not given Brendan the chance to twist his words, make him look like the bad guy.

Brendan makes no movement to stop him.

"Tony." He stares straight at the rotter as he speaks, makes sure that he's aware of what's going on here, that he won't stand to be made a fool of. "I've got Brendan here. Looks like he's been skiving from your group."

"Actually there's been a change of plan."

Ste immediately gets the feeling that he's not going to like what he's about to hear. Tony sounds sheepish, apologetic.

"What is it?"

"We're joining your group. We're going to be working together from now on."


	11. Chapter 11

"You're up early."

He doesn't tell Amy that he's never been to sleep. He'd done everything to try and get an early night: come home on time to give the kids a bath and put them to bed. Had a quick dinner, not looking once to see if Veronica had text him. It had been days since he'd gone on the dating site, and he'd pushed it so far out of his head that he wasn't sure if he would even be able to remember his password to log in.

It had been lights out by eleven. Then the waiting game had started, that same game that was becoming a set routine now. He'd kept very still, knowing that if he tossed and turned then he'd never fall asleep. He'd tried to even out his breathing, clear his mind, but it was all wrong. _He_ was all wrong.

He was tightly wound, tension making his body feel primed for action, and there wasn't a single moment when he wasn't aware of it, lying there in the dark and knowing that he'd have to spend the whole of the next day with Brendan.

He makes sure that Amy can't look at him for too long, busying himself with getting breakfast ready. It's only when the kids come through from the other room to see him that he stops pacing. If they see anything in him - the circles under his eyes, the unmasked worry in his face - then they won't know why, and they won't worry. That's what he tells himself as he faces them, as he does Leah's hair in a ponytail for school, as he helps Lucas to get a stain out from his trousers, scrubbing at them with a washcloth. They won't know.

"See you tonight. I'll text you at lunch." He gives Amy a hug - another way to ensure that she won't look at him for too long - and he closes the front door behind him after a last goodbye from the kids. He hopes it'll be enough to appease her, these updates during his break, these reassurances that he's still alive.

 _These reassurances that he's still alive._ It reverberates in his head as he makes his way to the treatment centre, so that by the time he's made it there it seems a miracle that he's made it at all, his legs feeling like they're about to buckle, his eyes twitching he's so exhausted.

He'd been confused when he'd first found out that they were meeting here. He knows it's not close to where they'll be going to work, and it had seemed pointless to come here when they were only going to go back into the village. But now that he's arrived and spotted the group, he sees why. They look like herded animals, distinct in their discomfort. Ste can see it even before he's made his way to them; most of the group aren't talking, instead throwing uneasy glances towards the treatment centre.

A man exits the building, a doctor that Ste vaugely recognises, has seen once or twice before, and Ste watches as some of the rotters flinch at the sound of the sliding doors and footsteps. He doesn't know what they're more afraid of, the possibility of a doctor approaching them or seeing a former rabid who's been reduced to a lifeless form, stripped of their power, dragged away. They must know that something like that would never happen in broad daylight so close to its walls - it's reserved for inside where it's considered _normal_ , but still there are deep frown lines across their foreheads, creasing the cover up mousse that they've laboured to apply.

The rotters who are speaking do so unnautrally; when Ste is in hearing distance he realises how deliberate it all sounds. It gives the impression of casualness, of calmness, but the rotters look like they're barely listening to each other. They're talking for talking's sake.

Then there's Brendan.

Always apart, always the only one in the group who has to be different, difficult. Everyone's dressed informally - even Jacqui's lost her trademark heels, something that Ste's certain is for Tony's benefit, not for his. They all know that there's little point in dressing up; they must have observed the other groups returning from work with mud on their knees and their clothes stained. It's not clean work, what they do, and everyone's dressed accordingly. Except for Brendan. He seems to be under the impression that he's exempt from work if his crisp white shirt and creaseless, spotless black trousers are anything to go by. Now that Ste's up close his shoes appear even more polished than from a distance. He looks immaculate, like he's going into the city. He looks like he should be in charge of them.

Ste smooths down his uniform, gives a nod to Tony who looks relieved now he's here.

"Right, let's do the register."

The register consists of a crumpled piece of paper that Tony brings out from his pocket.

Ste sees Brendan roll his eyes, hears Jacqui say to Rhys _"It's like being back at school."_

He waits as Tony reads off the list of names, something that feels like a largely pointless activity as Ste knows that all his group are here. It feels like another one of Warren's bright ideas, along with meeting at the treatment centre to spook the rotters. Create a register, call out their names like he and Tony have already forgotten who they've been looking after.

Or is this Danny? Is this all him?

Once they've all been accounted for they're off, heading towards the direction of the village as Ste knew they would. He tries to ignore the mutters behind him saying that they could have spent an extra twenty minutes in bed if they'd met where they usually do. He doesn't hear anything from Brendan; when he looks at him the rotter's staring straight ahead, stood apart from the others, hands in his trouser pockets. Ste's surprised he can fit anything in there, they look so tight.

They're cleaning up in the local park today - litter picking, sweeping up leaves, cleaning the mud that's gathered on park benches. It's nothing new for either group, and after the usual grumbling they get to work, using the rakes that have been provided by the council to gather the leaves.

"Is that safe?" Ste makes sure that he and Tony are out of earshot.

"What?"

"You know, the... rakes."

"What do you think they'll do, have our eyes out with them?" Tony laughs. "You're the one with the gun, Ste."

He hadn't forgotten it this time, had made sure to grab it from the back of the shelf first thing when he'd woken up. He wasn't going to take any chances, especially after his last meeting with Brendan.

"Yeah, but..." All it takes is one moment, one single second for him to take his eyes off the group.

"We're fine. Relax. Come on, let's sit down."

Tony nods over to the bench and they sit opposite each other. Ste's been to this park more times than he can count with Leah and Lucas. He doesn't know how he'd feel if he was surrounded by rotters while the kids were here. He's already seen several parents edge away from them, heading in the direction of the bus stop. It's beginning to feel like they've got the whole park to themselves.

"I'm glad you're here." Tony taps him lightly on his outstretched hand on the table, smiles.

"Yeah? Thought you'd be annoyed, having to look after me." He tries to keep it up, but he can already feel his previous irriration evaporating. Whatever's happened in the last few weeks, he's glad Tony's here. It's nice to have the company, nice to know that someone's here who doesn't despise him. "Sorry," he adds hastily.

"No, I'm sorry. I never should have... All that stuff I said, forget it."

"It's forgotten."

They both know it's not true, but Ste can work on it; he can work on forgetting.

"I'm going to be here for you. Whatever happens, whatever Warren does..."

Ste waits, sees if Tony will say anything about Danny, but he doesn't. He must not know. Maybe none of them do.

"Ta, that's... Thank you." He doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't want to think about it. It happens like this, in stages - he'll feel that fervent rush of needing Brendan gone, of having to do it right now, and then there'll come the quieter moments when he can't imagine pulling the trigger. It seems no more real than a story in his head, a tale so fabricated and far fetched that no one would believe him if he told them.

He can see that Tony's about to say more when they're interrupted; Ste hears shouting and he turns, gets to his feet and they're both over to the source of the commotion in seconds: Brendan with his hands on another rotter's chest, someone from Tony's group who's being pushed back by Brendan, the force of it enough to almost send the rotter tumbling to the ground.

"Brendan!" He doesn't need this, he doesn't _fucking_ need this. Except this is exactly what he _does_ need, isn't it? They haven't even been here an hour and Brendan's already starting trouble. Warren and Danny couldn't have planned it any better.

"What are you doing?" Tony's beside him, always manages to be effortlessly more authoritative than him. Ste doesn't take it as a slight; he wants the backup.

Brendan doesn't say anything, and the other rotter isn't talking either. He looks humiliated, but beyond that is a kind of fear that Ste recognises, that's always present with Brendan. To know him is to feel fear.

"Well?" Ste waits, the entire group coming to a standstill, a path being cleared around them like a no man's land.

"Right, come with me." Tony leads the other rotter off, gives Ste an almost imperceptible look before he turns his back. It could be good luck. It could be _this is your chance._

"Come on, come over here." Ste waits until Brendan follows him, makes sure that the other rotters don't use the opportunity of both him and Tony being distracted to do anything stupid. They see him looking, get the message and continue with their work. They look animated for the first time today, and he can sense what they're thinking: something's finally happened.

"We need to talk," Ste says, does it to bide himself time more than anything else. He knows how to deal with Leah and Lucas when they've done something wrong, but this, now? He hasn't got a clue.

"Sounds ominous."

The more Ste panics, the calmer Brendan seems. His shirt's still spotless, not even a fleck of dirt on it despite the fight. His arms are pale and if you look closely you can see the way the colour of them contrasts with the cover up mousse that's concealing his natural skin texture on his face. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, the hair on his arms visible.

A telling off seems foolish for someone like Brendan. Ste knows that he's unlikely to listen to him, and if he had to guess a response it would be laughter: laughter at him.

Still he tries.

"What happened then?" He crosses his arms; if he's going to feel like a teacher in a playground then he may as well act like one. "And don't leave anything out."

Brendan clears his throat like he's about to give a sermon.

"I was picking up some litter. One of those sandwiches that you get in supermarkets, you know? Brown bread. Looked like it was cheese and ham. It had fallen under that bench over there." At this point Brendan stops and twists his body round, pointing in the direction of the bench. "That one, see it? Right underneath. So I bent down - slowly - to pick up, and -"

 _Bastard_.

"I didn't mean _every_ detail, Brendan. I meant what happened with you and him."

"But you said don't leave anything out. That's what you said, Steven." He cocks his head to the side - a habit of his, Ste's noticed, or something he does to fake confusion when he knows exactly what he's doing - and stares him down. "Are you denying you said that?"

"You think you're so smart, don't you?"

 _Don't lose your patience. Don't let him see that he's getting to you._

"What did he do to make you push him?"

"He didn't do anything. Why would he need to? I'm an animal, remember?" He's baring his teeth like one; they may not be sharp but he looks like he could happily tear Ste in two.

"I never said that." He has to think for a moment though, has to try and remember everything he's said to him, because Brendan's words don't sound impossible. He's called them animals before, hasn't he? He knows he's thought it, that when he's watched rabids being dragged away there's been a clear divide, _them_ and _us_. He's thought it, and he hopes Brendan can't hear the hesitation when he speaks.

"He must have done something to piss you off." Ste tries to remember the other rotter's name from when the register had been called. Mark, was it? No, it was something distinctive, something unusual. "Mal - that was the guy you pushed?"

"Malachy."

"Malachy, right. What did he do?"

"Nothing."

"You're not just going to lash out like that for no reason, are you? And before you say anything, no, I don't think you'd do it just because you're a rotter. So just get over it, yeah?"

Brendan looks torn between laughing and hitting him.

"Get over it?" He echoes back, sounding like he thinks the words don't fit, like he must have misheard.

"Yeah, get over it. I don't think that. So let's just move on. Are you going to tell me or not?"

Brendan stays resolutely silent.

"Right. Thought not. Then just... try and not attack him again, okay? Or anyone else. Just go one day without risking someone's life. You might even like it."

"I don't risk people's lives." Brendan's already moving away from him, heading back to the main group.

No?" Ste says.

"No. Only yours."

He's gone before Ste can figure out if he's joking or not.

::::::

He doesn't have a chance to speak to Tony again until they stop for lunch. They all grab something from the cafe in the park, Ste watching as the waitress assesses their group as she serves them, her hands trembling as she uses the coffee machine. She stares at the other staff in what looks like a plea for help. They all stay back, pretending they haven't noticed; Ste sees one of them back away into the kitchen again when she realises that her workplace has suddenly become a hosting party for the undead.

Everyone gets sandwiches except for Brendan. He gets the works - a burger, chips, all of it washed down with a pint of beer. He doesn't seem to care about table manners, a large dollop of ketchup ending up smeared around his lips. Ste watches from another bench as Rhys makes an attempt to steal a chip, only for Brendan to stare him down, intimidating him enough for Rhys to mutter a sheepish _sorry mate_ and give one of the fakest smiles Ste's ever seen. When Brendan finally turns away, seemingly placated - for now - Rhys looks like a frightened child.

"Aren't you going to eat that?" Tony's voice cuts through Ste's attempts to spy; there's something endlessly interesting about watching rotters like this. Ste's never understood it - they're already dead, so they have no need for food, but all of them continue to keep up the charade, eating as though they're actually hungry. It's like a game they're all playing: I'll pretend I'm just like everybody else if you will.

"Gone off it a bit." Ste prods at the bread, pushes the salad around his plate.

"Come on, you've got to eat something. Amy will be after me if she sees you all skin and bone."

Ste smiles at that, takes a bite, gives him an eyebrow raise: _Are you satisfied now?_

"So? How was it?"

"With Brendan?"

Tony nods.

"It was..." He tries to think of the appropriate words for it, but nothing feels fitting except for: "Weird. It was weird."

"Weird how?"

"I don't know, he's just..." Unpredictable. Never on a level, never _just so_. "How's he been with you?" He needs to know if this is just him - if it's something he's doing, and Brendan's different with everyone else. Ste's already seen how much he can change around Cheryl, drastically so.

"Barely said two words to me."

"Really?"

"Anything he does say is in grunts. Suits me fine to be honest. He creeps me out."

Ste laughs at that. It seems such an understatement for the effect that Brendan has on him; like he's merely an irritant, something unnerving rather than downright terrifying.

"What about with everyone else?"

"Bit of what you saw today. If they answer back he tries to start something, but most of the time he just keeps to himself."

Ste slugs down some water, attempts to get rid of the lump in his throat.

"Do you still think I'm doing the right thing?"

He doesn't know what answer he wants. _Yes_ gives him a reason to go through with this - to kill Brendan, to be free of the HVF, to be rid of it all. _No_ means he won't be a murderer. He won't have to know what it's like to kill someone when they're fully conscious of what he's doing. When they're staring at him with human eyes.

Tony's expression turns grave.

"It's for the best, Ste."

 _For the best._ He's not even sure if Tony knows what that means beyond an empty phrase; words of comfort that he's handing out because he knows he needs to.

"Yeah."

He can hear Brendan chewing from where he sits. Or maybe it's not the chewing but the sounds he's making. He's _groaning_. When Ste looks the ketchup is gone from around his mouth, and he's finishing the last of the burger.

"It's just... sometimes he seems..."

"What?"

"I don't know."

He does know.

"Ste?"

"Human."

Tony shakes his head at him. Ste's glad for it - he needs it, needs the reminder that he's being ridiculous.

"It's all part of the council's games, remember? Give them cover up, make their eyes just like ours. It's not real, Ste. Remember that. How many times have you thought they're nice, they're just like us, and then a couple of weeks later they're trying to eat you alive?"

"But that's when they haven't taken their medication, isn't it?"

"You really think a rotter like Brendan's going to take his medication forever?"

"You think he'll come off it?" Brendan had seemed wild enough when he'd been in the cage. Ste doesn't ever want to know what he's like when he's in his untreated state.

"He seems the type. I promise you, you're doing the right thing, okay? Just keep doing what Warren says."

"Tony? You know that guy at the meeting a few weeks back? That Danny guy?"

He squirms in discomfort at his own lack of subtlety. Tony must hear it in his voice, how on edge he is, how much rests on his answer, but if he notices then he doesn't draw attention to it.

"Danny? Guy in a suit, looked like he was sucking a lemon? Vaguely. Why?"

If Tony's not in on it then there's a good chance none of the others are either.

"Just wondering where he disappeared to, that's all." Ste eats quicker now, is grateful for the distraction.

"You know how it is. People join then can't hack it. He probably got cold feet."

The idea is laughable to Ste. The man in the basement, the man who hadn't shown one iota of fear, the man who had casually threatened him like it was something he did every day.

"Probably did."

Tony balls his sandwich wrapper up, gets to his feet.

"Come on, let's round the others up."

::::::

Brendan's on his best behaviour for the rest of the afternoon.

His best, Ste comes to understand, means doing very little. It takes him a few hours to realise that Brendan only acts like someone who's working: walks around the park, holds the rake in his hands like he's using it, wipes his brow like he's sweating.

It's all for show. He yawns a few times, stretches, leans against the side of the bench when he thinks no one's watching.

It's preferable to causing trouble, but he's not pulling his weight. Not even close. For all of their complaining and procrastinating, the rest of the group have barely stopped and it shows; the park looks noticeably better, the footpaths cleared of leaves, the benches as spotless as the old wood that's worn through the years will allow. Everyone's a little worse for wear, their hands darkened by mud, some of their faces too.

Brendan's suit still looks like it's just been picked up from the dry cleaners.

Tony gathers everyone at the end of the day.

"Well done. You've all done a really good job."

They all look surprised. Tony does too, as though the words have slipped from his grasp without his permission. He covers it with a muffled _see you tomorrow_ and stands by to make sure that everyone hands in the equipment. Maybe Ste's earlier fear about the rakes hadn't gone completely over his head.

Ste refuses his offer of a lift. He needs the walk home to clear his head; he's aware that he's hardly done anything resembling work today, but the simple act of watching them all makes him feel exhausted. It's the sense of always having to be on his guard, always being _aware_.

It's dark out but his steps are quick, the gun strapped to him a constant reminder that he's armed. Home is already calling him, with its warmth and familiarity, with Amy and the kids. His house key is in his pocket, and he secures a hand over it, touches it once, takes in the knowledge that he's nearly there.

The quiet is comfortable at first; there's a safety about it. He's walked home with Leah and Lucas this way, taken this exact route, and he tells himself that the only difference now is that he's alone and it's dark, and things look different in the dark; he remembers when he was a kid and things in his room would take a different shape, would become monsters in his imagination, something simple transforming into something terrifying, contorted. There are things now - a car he passes, an empty water bottle rolling in the wind - that could startle him if he let them.

His breathing sounds louder.

He doesn't know when he becomes aware of it, but once he starts thinking it he can't stop: A certainty that he's being followed.

When he turns around there's no one there. It's not unlike the night weeks back when he'd killed the rabid - that sense of being watched, of knowing that someone's there - but he's aware that this time he could be dragged into the park. He's gained distance from it, but not enough that a rabid wouldn't be able to isolate him from the houses with their lights and people inside.

No one will think to look for him in the park. If they do then he could already be dead.

He turns around, spins abruptly in the hope of catching them off guard.

It's not a person on foot. He sees it now. It's a car.

The headlights blind him. He closes his eyes on instinct, then realises how foolish it is - he needs to see who's there, even if he doesn't want to - and opens them again, squinting, a hand shading his eyes as though it'll make it better.

Thoughts rush through his head: What if he's run over? What if the person's been following him all day, watching him in the park? But who would have that kind of vendetta? Who would want to scare him that much?

 _Danny._

He freezes, fear gripping him, his hands going stock still.

He doesn't want a repeat performance of what happened at Warren's house. He can't be alone with Danny again. He had made Ste uneasy before he'd even said anything; it was something about him, something about his presence that made him want to get as far away from him as possible. If he gets in his car then he knows that'll be it. It won't be up to him to decide when to get out.

He turns around again, and this time he runs. It's like in his dreams; he can't run fast enough, and it feels like there's no one else alive to hear him if he tried to call for help. He doesn't call - he still has some semblance of pride, and there's a part of him that hopes this is all in his head. He knows how weak his defense would sound: _I saw a car._

He's not looking where he's going, keeps staring back to see what the car's doing, to see if it's following him - it is - even though he knows that he has to keep going, has to keep running.

He trips, hands scraping against the pavement to stop his head from taking the fall. There's a moment when all he can think about is the pain, then his responses take over and he's scrambling to his feet again, cursing that he's robbed himself of those few seconds.

It's too late. There are hands on him, hands lifting him upwards. He can still see the bright lights of the car shining on him. Danny must have left them on, must have not had the time to properly pull over before grabbing him.

Ste wriggles, lets out a chorus of _get off me, fuck off,_ elbowing the figure holding him as hard as he can. He hears a muffled _Ow_ , then _you little bastard_ in what's very much not Danny's east-end accent.

Ste doesn't know whether he's more or less afraid now that he knows who it is.

They're both panting, the figure bent over and clutching the side of his stomach. When he straightens up he stares at Ste, eyes blazing. He's let go of him but he's still close, and in the scuffle his white shirt has come untucked; it hangs freely over his trousers now, the first time today that something's been out of place.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"What the fuck's wrong with _you_?" Ste says, is half tempted to use Brendan's own car as an escape route. He doubts the rotter had a chance to take the keys with him when he'd got out. It's appealing, the idea of getting out of here as fast as possible.

He stays. He hasn't got that much of a death wish.

"Why were you running?"

Ste waits, sees if Brendan's joking. He's not.

"Wouldn't you, if you had some psycho following you?"

Brendan repeats the word, says it in a kind of stage whisper. _Psycho_.

"Who says I was following you?"

Ste shakes his head, incredulous.

"Okay, so I was." He doesn't look even a bit sorry. "I was going home, saw you walking here."

"So?"

"So, it's not safe at this time of night. Any time of night. You never know who could be out there." He says it without a hint of irony.

"You did it for my _safety_ , then?" Sarcasm is dripping from his every word.

Brendan scratches his head, chews his gum. It's another thing Ste's noticed he does, and it's crossed his mind, the idea that he might be doing it so he doesn't smell dead. He wants to ask him, wants to fire shots, but the need to go one night without his life being threatened is stronger.

"Why didn't you get a lift with Antony?"

"Who?"

"Tony," he says, as though it's patently obvious.

"Wanted a walk."

Something must be funny about it - something unknown to Ste - because Brendan laughs; that same laugh, always, with the manic edge that makes Ste grow more afraid the longer it goes on.

"Wanted a walk, the boy says." He looks to the sky like he's talking to someone else.

"I did," Ste says, defensive now. "Or have I got to get your permission first?"

"Come on, I'll give you a lift." Brendan's already heading back towards his car. The intensity of the headlights don't seem to effect him.

Ste stays still, waits for Brendan to catch up and realise he's not moving. When he does he appraises Ste, his features drowned out by the lights.

"I won't bite."

"Very funny." He still doesn't move.

"You're not walking home." There's a finality behind his words that gives no room for argument. Still Ste tries.

"I haven't got far to go. Just..." _Just leave me alone._ He's not entirely sure now that he received the better trade off, that it wouldn't have been better if it had been Danny waiting for him.

"Steven. Get in."

"I don't get you." He doesn't mean for it to come out, or for his exasperation to be so evident, or the trickle of a laugh that's more like a protest. "First you threaten my kids, now you're..." He waves his hands in the air to signify whatever it is he's doing. He hasn't even begun to understand it himself. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

There's a flicker of something on Brendan's face - some emotion, something that Ste can't read, something that's even more inscrutable with his features being blurred by the headlights. Then it's gone.

"You're scared."

"What?" He's too shocked by it to remember that he shouldn't be replying. _Don't engage_ : that's what he should be doing. That's what Warren and Amy and Tony and everyone in his life would tell him.

"Who did you think I was going to be?"

"No one." He hopes Brendan can't see his face clearly in the dark; hopes that his voice has learnt how to lie.

Brendan touches the side of his stomach, lays a pale hand against it. "You've got a good aim, I'll give you that. Didn't think you had it in you."

Ste ignores the insult.

"I told you, I thought it was some psycho. Looks like I was right."

Brendan doesn't react, not this time.

"Get in," he repeats.

"You're gonna block all the traffic."

"What traffic? It's dead round here."

Ste resists the easy joke. He feels steadier now, or he's _trying_ to feel it, and he hopes it's the same thing. He's got his gun. He's got his phone. Amy knows what time he's due back from work, and he's told her that he hasn't got to patrol tonight. She'll start to be worried about him if he's any later, and if she doesn't hear back from him then she'll call Tony and the others. There'll be a search party. Something will lead to Brendan.

"I want my shirt back."

He doesn't know why he says it. It's the most insignificant, unimportant thing he can think of.

Brendan frowns, looks like he doesn't have a clue what Ste's talking about, and then slowly it begins to register.

"Your shirt?" He echoes, only highlighting the ridiculousness of the request. "Remind me what it looks like."

"It's yellow, it's -"

"Good for crossing the road when it's dark? I think I know the one."

"That's one of my best shirts."

"Wore it for a special occasion, did you?"

Ste looks away. "Can I have it or not?"

"Lost it."

"What?"

"I lost it," Brendan says, louder this time. "Cheryl must have misplaced it."

"No, she..." He thinks of the woman who'd invited him in, who'd made him a cup of tea, who'd given him her brother's clothes, who'd allowed him to sit on her sofa. A stranger who'd made him feel like he had a right to be there. "She wouldn't."

"You calling me a liar?" Brendan steps closer.

"No, I'm..." _Yes_ , he thinks, _yes I am_. He doesn't say it. He can't, not when Brendan's looking like he wants to kill him for it. "You better give me the money."

"How much do I owe you?"

"A hundred."

"Fuck off."

Ste manages a smile at that; they both do.

"Thirty five I think it was."

"You got ripped off, mate."

"Have you got the money or not?"

"Don't carry that kind of cash around with me, Steven. Not with this crowd. Never know where Jacqui McQueen's hands are gonna go."

"Tomorrow then."

"Impatient, aren't we?"

"You're the one who lost it. Or sorry, your _sister_ did."

He's broken one of his rules: never say sorry to Brendan Brady, no matter what the circumstances, even if he's taking the piss.

"My vest."

"What?" Ste says, momentarily forgetting that he still has something that belongs to him.

Brendan waits.

"Lost it." As he says it he imagines the vest in the drawer where he put it, stuffed behind the rest of his clothes at the back. "Misplaced it, didn't I?"

"Right."

Ste waits. "Not going to charge me, then?"

"No, you're alright." He looks at Ste, looks as if he's expecting something.

"Am I meant to be grateful?"

"A thank you would be nice, as it goes. You could let me give you a lift."

Ste shakes his head, starts walking. He should have done this from the start.

"Steven."

"Go away, yeah? Leave me alone. What are you even doing here, acting like we're... What are you doing here, Brendan?"

"I told you, I was -"

"Worried? That's a joke. And I'm not your _mate_ , alright?"

He's pulled back, a hand tugging at his arm, its grip strong. He yanks himself free, tries to run properly this time, but Brendan isn't letting him.

Ste turns, so close to Brendan that he can smell his aftershave now, and the mint of his gum, and something that's just him. His breath is hot on Ste's face.

"You're hurting me."

Brendan lessens his grip but doesn't let go.

"Going to add more bruises to the list, are you?"

He takes his hand away, steps back.

"What do you mean?"

"If it's not Warren then it's you, isn't it?" He's shouting now; it still feels like they're the only two people on this street, the only two people in the world, like everything around them has come to a standstill.

"Warren? Has he..." He shifts from one foot to the other; his fingers are moving frantically like he has no control over them. "Has he hurt you?"

"No."

"What does he do?" The way he's saying it, it's making Ste feel like he can't not tell him.

"Nothing, he..." He considers if for a brief moment, thinks about letting a detail slip, something that would make him feel lighter, like he doesn't have to carry everything on his own. Even though Amy's seen what Warren's like, Ste's never given her the full story. It's not about loyalty; it's about imagining her worrying every time he leaves the house, imagining what could happen at work that day. He can't do that to her. It has to be his burden alone.

Brendan stares at him expectantly. Hopefully.

Ste shakes his head. "Nothing."

He sees Brendan release a breath. He looks disappointed, unmistakably so.

"Go on then," he goads, takes a step closer to Brendan so he's in the firing line again, exposed, vulnerable. "Do whatever you want. It's why you came her, isn't it? Why you followed me?" It has to be. The idea of Brendan actually wanting to drive him home is laughable. "Go on," he repeats, vicious now. Is this what asking for it feels like? "You've been fucking up my life ever since we met. Now I'm right where you want me."

"Fucking up your life?" Brendan says each word slowly. Ste hears it back, hears the accusation behind it, the boldness of the claim.

 _I should have kept running. I should have kept running. I should have kept running._ The thought's so loud that it feels like it's going to burst through his skull.

"You stole my instructions." He says it - the most inconsequential, childish thing he can think of - because he can't say what he wants to: that he wouldn't have to be dealing with Danny Houston if Brendan hadn't come to town. That he would never have to kill a rotter if it wasn't for him. That he never would have been put in these situations; trapped in a cage, followed home, fearing for his safety. It all never would have happened.

He can tell that Brendan doesn't know what he's talking about. It only makes Ste angrier. Has he forgotten everything else too, every hurtful thing he's said, everything that he's ever done to him?

"The first meeting we had. That one in front of the poxy council." He waits, watches as the clarity returns to Brendan's face. "First chance you got you humiliated me. Thought you were funny, didn't you? Thought that it was all a big joke, making me look stupid."

It's as though he's back in that room now, in front of Rhys and Jacqui and the rest of them, looking down at the piece of paper and realising how unprepared he was, how he didn't even know where to start. Then Brendan interrupting, showing him up, proving to everyone what Ste already knew - that he wasn't capable of being in charge, and he never would be.

"I didn't think it was a joke." He says it seriously; somberly, even, but Ste cuts across him, unable to stop now.

"You must really hate me. Showing me up like that, making the others laugh at me. Wanted to impress Jacqui McQueen did you? Thought she'd like it, you making fun of me, throwing your weight around? Well I reckon you're well in, cos she loved it. Every single time she sees me she acts like I'm _dirt_ , like I'm some kid that got made to look after her. So congrats, _mate_ \- you did it. You won."

All he can hear is the sound of his ragged breathing. He feels _incredible_ \- he doesn't know if it's the adrenaline or if it's just him, just him finally saying everything he's wanted to say, robbing Brendan of a comeback for the first time. It's as though he's drained the rotter of all his energy; he looks deflated, defeated.

"I'm just gonna..." The rotter turns to leave.

"What's wrong? Got nothing to say?"

Ste doesn't let him go; he's in his face, mirrors Brendan with his movements when he tries to dodge past him. He knows Brendan could easily push him aside if he wanted to, but he doesn't.

"That's not like you. Come on." He's angling for a fight and he doesn't know why. Brendan's given him a way out. He's walking away, and Ste knows he should walk away too.

"Alright, Steven." He nods, considers him, eyes travelling over his face. Ste's expecting an onslaught - stinging words, a punch even, something that will make Brendan have the upper hand again. "You're dyslexic."

Ste blinks rapidly, feels like his heart's in his mouth.

"What?" It's so cold that he can see his breath in the air.

"You're dyslexic," Brendan says again, and it hits Ste harder this time, doesn't lessen in its impact.

He feels like he's drowning.

"I knew you couldn't read the instructions. I thought you'd rather I took them, caused a scene, did... did something, then you wouldn't have to..." He shrugs his shoulders awkwardly, rolls his gum around in his mouth.

Is he meant to say something? He's not able to; he opens his mouth and tries to think of the words, but they're stuck. He shouldn't be here. He should have accepted Tony's offer of a lift. He'd be home right now, safe. This conversation never would have happened.

"You want a lift?" Brendan asks, breaking the silence.

Ste's surprised when he manages to shake his head; surprised that he can move at all. He's sure he sees Brendan glance down and look at his gun.

"Right, I'm gonna..."

He heads back towards his car. Ste can't read the expression on his face once he's inside. The engine starts and he drives away, neither of them looking back at each other.


	12. Chapter 12

He hopes he'll get ill overnight. The kids bring home all sorts of bugs from school and nursery, and he and Amy inevitably end up catching them. He hopes he'll wake up and not be able to get out of bed. Warren will still pay him if it's just a couple of days. He knows he'll have to go back eventually, but it'll buy him time until he figures out how to summon up the courage to go back. To face Brendan.

Only Amy has ever known about his dyslexia. Pauline and Terry had known about it under another name, and so had his teachers. _Stupid_ , they had branded him. _Not like the others_. _Brain-dead_ , if his mum and step-dad were feeling particularly nasty. Amy had been the first person who had put a name - a proper, real name - to what was happening. Who had made him understand, who had made him feel like it was something he shared with other people, that it wasn't something that was wrong in him.

Does everyone know? If Brendan knows, if he's guessed that easily just from the time he's spent with him, then does that mean that everyone else has known all this time too? Warren, Tony, Darren, all the rest of the Human Volunteer Force - have they known for years and all been laughing at him? Maybe that's why Warren had given him the instructions without explaining; he'd wanted to trip him up, knew that he wouldn't have a clue what to do, that the panic of having so much on one page would make it impossible for him to even attempt to make sense of it.

There's another question though, something else that gives Ste another sleepless night, that goes round in his head like a barrage of torment: why hadn't Brendan wanted to humiliate him? Why had he known - because he was right in this, Ste had to admit - that Ste would rather he stole the instructions than be forced to acknowledge that he couldn't make head or tail of them?

Brendan had known that Warren had wanted him to hurt him when he'd been locked in the cage when they'd first met. Revealing to the group that he was dyslexic could have been the first step in making sure that Ste was made to feel as powerless as Brendan had been.

He'd had the chance, but he hadn't taken it.

Ste pulls himself out of bed. He checks to see if Amy's coat is hanging on the hook in the hallway, and when he sees it's not he can breathe a little easier. He doesn't want her seeing him like this. It's only confirmed when he looks in the bathroom mirror: the dark circles that have gathered under his eyes the last few weeks seem to have deepened, and there's a grey tinge to his skin that makes him look like he hasn't seen the sun in a long time.

He _looks_ ill. That's enough, isn't it?

He checks his phone when he's back in his room. He's got a message from Amy saying that she's taken the kids to school. _Sleepy head_ , she calls him. _Thought I'd let you have a lie in._

He must have slept for a bit, not to have heard the noise from the kids. He tries to get comfort from that, but his body feels heavy, like it's taking all his effort to shift it from place to place, room to room.

Another message. Tony, reminding him of the time they're meeting today. Nothing from Veronica. Not a message telling him that she wants to meet again, or asking him to call her, or telling him that he's a prick and she hates him. Nothing. He would think he's getting the silent treatment, but that feels like something Amy would do to him if he's pissed her off, or Leah and Lucas if he hasn't bought them something they want. Silent treatment feels too warm for him and Veronica.

He doesn't check the dating site.

::::::

He practices in front of the mirror. He knows he won't be seen over the phone, but it feels more authentic like this. _Hi Warren, it's me._ Coughing comes at this point - lots and lots of coughing, followed by a sneeze which he manages to fake convincingly. _I feel awful. Sorry, I'm not going to be able to come in today. Tony's going to have to run the group. Just going to have to go to bed. I'll be back as soon as I can._ More coughing - a hacking cough this time, so loud that Warren wants to end the call as soon as possible, and then a few white lies to Amy when she comes back. She'll be relieved, knowing that today won't be the day he'll end someone's life.

He almost doesn't think Warren will pick up, but just as he's about to give up there's a sharp grunt of "Hello?"

"Warren, it's me."

"Who?"

"Me. Ste."

"What do you want?"

The coughing starts. "Listen, mate." It pains him to add it, but buttering him up could help here. "I'm not feeling great." More coughing.

"Got the plague, have you?"

"Feels like it. I'm feeling really rough. I don't think I'll be able to make it in today."

"Fuck's sake, Hay."

"Sorry." He's already preparing to put the phone down, anticipating Warren's half sympathetic reply.

"Swallow two paracetamol. They're dead. You're not going to be passing anything on to them."

"Warren -"

He's hung up on him.

Ste almost throws the phone against the wall. He resists - barely - and looks down at his hands. He's shaking.

::::::

He's got his uniform on, his gun strapped to him. He's styled his hair a little, put some gel in it so the tufts he got from leaning against his pillow all night have been smoothed down. He feels more nervous than when he went to meet Veronica.

 _Get it together._

What happened last night is nothing. He's had worse. He's let things slide lately, been more lenient than he should have been, but it's not too late to turn things around. He feels lost in his own world when he leaves the flat, but he shakes it off a little; walks with purpose instead of dragging his feet along the ground, and it works. He can feel himself getting better - or pretending to be better, which he decides is almost the same thing - and by the time he's left the estate he's managed to convince himself that it's going to be a good day. He doesn't have to dread this; not today, not what Brendan knows, not his life.

Brendan is the first thing he sees when he makes it to the village.

There's a chance that the rotter hasn't noticed him yet. He isn't looking at him, is on the outskirts of the group like he always is, dressed in the shirt and trousers combination that Ste's come to expect, the one that makes the others look like they're being babysat; some of them might be close to Brendan in age, but they seem like kids in comparison, a million miles away from how put together Brendan is, how indifferent he is to it all. It's easy to see that he thinks he's better than all of them, and for a split second when Ste makes his way towards them, he believes it too. It's hard not to, looking at him.

In the harsh daylight he can see the cover up mousse on Brendan's face clearly, how it blends into his skin unnaturally. Perhaps that's all it was; a trick of the light making Ste think that he could ever seem human.

He's not going to look at him anymore. He's not going to talk to him, or acknowledge him in any way. _A fresh start._

"Morning."

He's at Tony's side, gives a fleeting smile to the group - avoiding a particular member - and resists his impulse to shiver at the early morning coldness that's spreading through his body. He knows it's something Rhys and Jacqui love to mock him for when they think he can't hear. It's one of the things that they have over him, their way of feeling superior. He knows Jacqui would be in a skirt (sans tights) if it weren't for Tony enforcing the rules on uniform.

Tony gets the register out.

"I can do that," Ste says, pretends he doesn't see the flicker of surprise that appears on Tony's face; Ste's never been one to volunteer. "Right, you lot," he calls out, makes sure that he's got their attention. He doesn't look up to see if he has, scared that he'll be faced with the sight of whispering behind his back and suppressed laughter at his attempt to take charge.

He begins, reels off every name on the list until everyone's accounted for. He keeps his voice clear, even, no stuttering in between. He sounds confident, assured, not the slightest sense of hesitation when he calls _Brendan Brady_. He hopes he sounds like a leader.

When he's finished he puts the list in his pocket; it'll force him to call it later when they're done for the day, won't give him the opportunity to back out. There's silence still, no one attempting to jump in or talk over him. _Good_. This is good.

"We're at the pub again today. No funny business, alright? Darren's already put his neck on the line to let you be there."

There have been rumours ever since their first day working there that Jack and Frankie haven't been pleased about their arrangement. An _inconvenience_ Darren had called it, a far more polite word than his dad and step-mum had used in reality, Ste guessed. Everyone knows that it's bad for business to have rotters on the premises, and Darren himself had refused at first. It had taken a private talk with Warren for him to change his mind suspiciously quickly.

Ste hasn't been to the pub since he'd first found out about Tony's group joining his. He remembers the humiliation that he'd felt when Brendan had repeated his words back to him: _After all, there's plenty of other rotters who'd love to make some money, do what we're doing. Isn't that right?_ Like Ste had been saying they were all disposable, that he could take his pick. If it had been Amy's sister that he was talking about then, yes, he was a bastard, but these people - these _things_ \- why should he have felt bad? All they'd ever done was laugh at him and question his ability to make decisions.

He shouldn't be worried about going back. He shouldn't be worried about being there with Brendan again.

They set off. Ste doesn't look behind him, doesn't check to see if Brendan's keeping up or trailing off, away from them as he always is. He concentrates on talking to Tony; it steadies him, keeps him calm. They don't talk about Brendan, or about Warren, and Ste doesn't make any attempt to bring Danny up again. They talk about where they'll get lunch from, how Tony will have to come round to the flat soon because it's been ages since he properly saw Leah and Lucas. The normality feels miraculous, like it's been snatched from Ste in recent months and he's only just noticed, only just got it back.

He tells himself that he can't feel Brendan looking at him. It's his paranoia, that's all, making him feel like he's being watched. Maybe he even expects it now after last night, after being sure that he was being followed even when Brendan's car had gone.

He's safe here. He's not alone. He's got his gun and Tony's here by his side. He's _safe_.

::::::

He gets his usual lunchtime text from Amy.

 _You okay? xx_

He's about to send her back something quick, but he re-reads his message and realises how cold it sounds. He knows why she's really contacted him, just like he's always known.

 _Fine. It's not today, don't worry xx_

He's not sure if she believes him. He can see her searching his face every time he comes home, as though she'll see it in his eyes, will know just by looking at him if he's killed someone that day. She knows - she must know - that he's killed his fair share of rabids in the past, but it's like she's buried it, and for the first time she's being confronted by the truth of what he does.

"Wife checking in on you?"

He looks without meaning to. It's a reflex, and he doesn't have the chance to check himself and stop. It's too late now. It's short, just a hurried glance before he looks away, but it's long enough to have given Brendan what he wants: permission to continue, to think that it's okay, that this is something they do.

"Keeping tabs, is she? That's adorable, really."

He doesn't know who Brendan's talking about, who he's decided he's with this week - Amy? Veronica? Someone new?

"Leave me alone."

It's something that falls from Ste's lips without pause for thought. It's not that he doesn't mean it - he does, wants today to run smoothly and that can't ever seem to happen with Brendan interfering. He doesn't expect Brendan to act on it, to turn away from him as though the conversation never happened in the first place. He moves away, starts picking up litter with the rest of them. It's something resembling work, and it's a shock after the previous day's procrastination.

Ste goes over his words, wonders if he had sounded harsh, angry even. Brendan hadn't looked hurt in the split second before he'd turned his back on him, but Ste's seen by now that he's perfected a poker face. He's good at hiding everything. He swipes a finger over his phone again, sees if Amy's replied - she hasn't, he must have set her at ease for now - but it's there in the back of his mind, incessant, nagging, loud. _Something's not right._

Brendan would have taken it further before, he's sure of it. The teasing would have continued until he'd got a rise out of him; a real rise, something that would have shown Ste up in public, would have made him look reckless in front of the others, like he was incapable of controlling himself. _Unprofessional_.

The lack of reaction makes Ste uneasy. It feels like a waiting game. He oversees the rotters, talks to Tony when there's a chance, and all the while he watches, sees what Brendan will do, if he'll look his way. He doesn't. Not once. Not a glance out of the corner of his eyes. He doesn't even come near him; suddenly the close proximity that Brendan seemed to love so much has given way to indifference, and he's as far removed from him as he is from the others, giving him a wide birth like there's a circle around him that Ste can't enter.

 _He thinks it's contagious._ The thought begins to creep up on him, and he's not unaware of the madness there, that a rotter would be afraid of catching something from him. It's the only conclusion that Ste can reach though. Something's changed in the space of twenty four hours, and it's glaringly obvious what it is. Now that Brendan's told him he knows about his problem, he doesn't have to pretend to want to be around him anymore. The hate's given way to this state they're in now, where Brendan can't bear to be near him, doesn't want to risk touching him. He's seen that Ste's a fake, that he's forged his way into the Human Volunteer Force under false pretenses.

"It's lunchtime," he calls, the relief palpable within the group. Some of them even offer him a rare smile before they remember themselves.

Brendan still doesn't look at him. Some of the rotters have broken a sweat, the knees of their uniforms stained from where they've leaned against the ground. All that's altered about Brendan is his shirt; it's become untucked and hangs loose over his trousers. It almost makes him look more approachable, a chink in his armour, a small flaw that Ste makes himself focus on.

He's got dark hair on his stomach; Ste sees it when his shirt blows in the breeze.

::::::

He doesn't know how they start talking about it.

They've all stopped for lunch, spreading themselves out on the benches outside. There's not much bargaining for seats to be done; they already seem to have scared everyone off, and the remaining customers are inside. Ste can see them standing up from their seats from time to time, peering through the windows to see if they're still there. He watches Jacqui stick her tongue out at them. He doesn't stop her; for once it feels warranted. Ste feels like they're all on display, trapped underneath a glass jar to be observed.

Brendan's ordered twice as much food as the rest of them. Every time Ste looks over he's drowning his chips in sauce, getting the foam from his pint in his moustache.

Light, the conversation is, and about anything and everything, something to pass the time, to make it normal. Maybe it's his fault, how they start talking about it. He's teasing Tony about eyeing up one of the staff - a new girl that Frankie's hired, doe eyed, gives them a smile as she walks away, has a skirt so short that it could rival one of Jacqui's.

It's meant to be about Tony, not about him. Ste hasn't even thought about that since Veronica - it still feels too new, the humiliation he'd felt when she'd pushed him from her house and slammed the door in his face as vivid as when it had happened.

Tony misinterprets his silence.

"You and Amy, are you..."

"No, course not."

"Alright, don't have a go. I thought that's why you weren't looking."

"Looking at what?"

"Exactly. You don't see anyone."

"What, her?" Ste jabs a hand in the direction of the departed girl.

"She was looking at you."

Ste waits for the punchline.

"She was looking at _you_ , Tony."

"I wish."

He can't be serious.

"Look at me," Ste says.

"What?"

He sticks his feet to the side where Tony can see them. He shakes his trainers lightly so he'll look, so he'll see the way they're scuffed at the edges, the soles of them nearly falling apart. If it was raining Tony would be able to see the way the water soaks through.

Tony laughs him off, sips at his drink like he's closing him down.

"Go on, look." He puts a hand on his trousers this time, over where they're worn at the knees.

"What am I meant to be looking at?"

If Tony's trying to make him feel better, it isn't working. He's ignoring the obvious, pretending that he doesn't see.

"Someone like her isn't going to be looking at someone like me."

"Don't be daft. Fishing for compliments, are you?"

"No. Just..." He's telling the truth, is all. "Not exactly had a lot of offers, have I." He's not sure Veronica counts. She'd seen a few pictures, wanted him before she knew him, erased him overnight from her life when she did.

"Why don't you go and talk to her now?" Tony nods in the direction of the pub. "I'm serious."

"Too much hassle." He has more of his drink, gulps it down. He wishes it was something stronger, but he can't be seen to drink around the rotters, not in work hours. He's never been able to handle his drink.

"I'll help you."

Ste laughs at the thought of Tony being his wingman, imagines him inadvertently bringing up embarrassing stories from his past that has the girl running in the opposite direction.

"No thanks."

"You can't be alone forever, can you?"

He means it as a throwaway comment, but it sticks. Ste's lost his appetite; he picks at what's left of his burger, the words repeating themselves in his mind until it feels like they're being said out loud, again and again, rearranging themselves into something new.

 _Alone. Forever._

He's meant to say _No, no I can't_ , and then he's meant to go into the pub, talk to the girl. She'd been attractive, hadn't she? His type, he thinks, and maybe Tony hadn't been imagining the look she'd given him. Ste thought he'd seen it too, for a flash of a second before she'd walked away. Even if there had been no look it's worth a try, isn't it? He'd managed to meet a woman that he'd never even seen before, beyond a few grainy pictures, so this - going up to this girl, speaking to her, seeing if he's in with a shot - it should be easy.

He stays in his seat. There's laughter from the other tables, and when he looks he realises the stark difference from when they'd all first met in the hall; there's a camaraderie now, a familiarity that wasn't there before. The rotters, they've become comfortable with each other.

Brendan's the only one who isn't laughing. He's eating, busy with his hands, and Ste wonders if it's not unlike the way he is; using it as a distraction, as a way of not dealing with the fact that he doesn't have a clue what to really do. He must be able to feel Ste's eyes on him - they're not sitting that far apart, and it's at least a few minutes before Ste drags them away - but still he doesn't look.

He doesn't look when Ste calls them all back after the lunch hour is up, or when Ste's handing round more plastic bags to dispose the rubbish in, or when he comes over to Brendan's group to see how they're all getting on. Not once does he look, or acknowledge that he's seen him at all, or that he knows he's alive. Not once.

::::::

They've put everything away, done a final register to make sure everyone's accounted for. Ste reads it out again, voice as unwavering as it was the first time. When he stumbles over the names in his mind he remembers how Tony had said them when he'd done it, and it steadies him.

Tony comes to him. They're the last two standing; everyone else has gone through the usual routine of leaving as quickly as possible, as though they're afraid of the smalltalk that could result from being with them after hours. Ste sees Jacqui change into her high heels that she'd stashed away in her bag. Rhys waits behind for her, and offers her his arm when they go down the steps of the pub. She hesitates, looks like she's going to turn him down, but then she links her arm with his.

"Want a lift?"

"What?" Ste says, tears his eyes away.

"Save you getting the bus."

He almost takes him up on his offer. It's what he should have done last night.

"No, it's fine. Think I'm going to walk it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Really, you go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He waits till he sees Tony leave, till his car's turned the corner. It's important that he doesn't see this.

He can't be sure that Brendan will still be here. It's been ten, fifteen minutes since Ste saw him go, wordlessly breaking from the group. His shirt had been tucked in then. He must have noticed it had come undone, fixed it. He'd ran his hand through his hair too, and Ste had thought how it ought to have looked messy after that, like his always did when he did it, but it had looked smooth. Soft almost. He'd walked down the steps - not running, but it was like he had places to be, something far better to be doing than all of this.

He could have driven straight off, be long gone. But Ste's taking the chance that he won't be.

It can't be a coincidence that the pub's just getting busy when he leaves it. He can feel the quiet relief from inside that they're all gone, and when Frankie comes out to collect glasses she glances round the place, looks like she's checking to see that every last one of them has left. He wonders if the rotters can see it too, if every time they leave a place they know that there's a celebration of sorts, that it's like everyone's been holding their breath.

He feels safer now than yesterday, safer in the heart of the village in the darkness than he'd been at the park. It makes him walk slowly, to watch, to wait, to feel like there's no longer that urgency to get home that there was yesterday. He could be wrong - Brendan might not have taken his car today. It's not a long walk for him to his flat, and if that's the case then Ste could be waiting for nothing.

Then he hears it. The gentle sound of the engine, the lights from behind him, the gut feeling that he knows who's there.

He turns, looks, starts walking towards the car before he can consider what he's doing, before he can think about whether it's a good idea. He throws open the car door, sits back heavily in the seat, feels breathless already.

He allows himself to look at Brendan; properly look, to register his surprise. His hands are slack on the steering wheel, his mouth agape, the pupils of his eyes dilated. The car's in standstill, off to the side of the pavement so that the road's not being blocked.

"You're not driving."

"I'm not?" There's a shake to Brendan's voice, and it's laced with confusion. He wasn't expecting this; he must have not been following him today. Ste had seen it when he'd turned in the road, had seen that Brendan hadn't known he'd be there.

"No. And if you even try it I'll scream. I'll tell them that you've attacked me, that you're trying to kill me."

Ste doesn't know who would hear him, who would come running, who _them_ is, but his threats seem to get the required effect. Brendan listens, considers him, and doesn't try to argue.

"Right." Ste nods to himself, pleased. "So now that's sorted, you can understand this, okay? I can read."

There's a small crease forming in the centre of Brendan's forehead; clearly this wasn't where he thought this conversation would go. He's about to say something but Ste stops him, holds a hand up. He doesn't think it'll be enough to silence him, but it is.

"I'm not stupid, okay? I can read. I _can_. And I can write too, before you get all... before you try and say something."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were."

"No, I..." Maybe Brendan realises it's pointless to fight his corner here. He trails off, shifts in his seat, staring straight ahead. He's blinking, and something about it makes Ste think that it's in discomfort. He remembers what Brendan had said about the contact lenses hurting. _Like glass in your eyes._

"You alright?"

Brendan looks annoyed that he's noticed. He stops blinking and looks at him steadily, face set.

"Fine."

Ste should leave it alone, drop it like Brendan wants.

"You're not though, are you? What do you usually do, take those out the minute work's finished?"

He points a finger at his own eyes, imagines what it would feel like to have the constant pain all day and have to endure it. _They'll feel like ordinary lenses. They'll feel like nothing._ That's what they'd said, the staff at the treatment centre years back, during one of their talks to the village. He'd thought he'd forgotten it all - he'd been bored and restless standing at the back, wondering why any of this concerned him, why he should care about the rotters' comfort - but it comes back to him now, as sharply as if he's hearing it for the first time.

Brendan doesn't answer him. His back's straight as a whip, unnaturally so, the tension in him evident.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Ste says. "You do, don't you? Do you get rid of the cover up too?"

"You think I want to look like you?"

The suddenness of Brendan's words, the sting of them, feels like an attack.

"Your kind." He says it like it repulses him, still doesn't look at him.

 _Maybe I repulse him._

"Rather look dead, would you?" He says it with all the indifference he can summon, thinks that Brendan would hate that more than contempt.

"I'd rather look like me."

He's offended him. Ste almost wants to laugh at the idea, at the realisation of it. He's offended a rotter. He bites back the instinctive urge to apologise, swallowing it down until all he can feel is anger again, raw and at the surface.

"We done here?" It doesn't sound like a question. It sounds like Brendan's asking him to get out, now.

"No." It's the opposite of what Ste wants to say, the opposite of what he knows he should do, but if he goes now then the entire conversation has been for nothing. It can't end like this, with Brendan winning again. "No, I... Look, you can stop feeling sorry for me."

It's not the right time to say it; he can see that the last thing Brendan's feeling for him right now is pity. But Ste focuses on today, on everything that's happened - or didn't happen, with Brendan's lack of interaction with him feeling forced, as though the rotter was making a conscious effort to not look at him, not talk to him.

"What?" He waits, looks like he wants to shake Ste to make him explain.

"I'm not stupid."

"I heard you the first time."

"Then why were you..." He stops, realises how pathetic he'll sound. _Why were you ignoring me? Why weren't you making your usual digs? Why weren't you looking at me?_ It's needy, desperate. He's going to sound like he wants Brendan to pay attention to him.

He's sweating as Brendan looks at him. He hopes the rotter can't smell it on him.

"You were acting funny with me." His voice sounds small, like it could disappear completely. He wishes _he_ could disappear.

"Funny how?"

He wants him to say it. Maybe he's enjoying it, making Ste search for the words, seeing him flustered, seeing him want the ground to swallow him up.

"Different." He hopes Brendan will get it, hopes that he won't press him to go on. But then it's him, it's him making himself go on, his words running away from him, the space between them in the car feeling like nothing, like there's no air that he can breathe that's his own. "You think I'm stupid, so you... You want to stay clear, because I'm..."

 _I'm not the man you thought I was._

"Are you going to tell everyone?"

He doesn't think Brendan will understand, but then he does.

"No one needs to know."

"You'll use it though, won't you? If you want to, if you need to, you'll... You'll make them laugh at me."

He wishes he hadn't said it. What if he's given Brendan the idea? What if he wasn't even planning that far ahead, and now he's planted the seed?

"No one needs to know," he says again, and there's disgust there that can't be masked, that Ste doesn't ask about. He's not sure he wants to know.

Another car passes them. Ste waits to see if the driver looks out at them, sees them together, and what they'd think if they did. Can Brendan's cover up mousse be seen clearly from outside? Or would it look like two people together, sitting side by side, as ordinary as anything else?

The lights die down, disappear as the car rounds the corner out of sight.

"And you can stop being funny with me and all."

Brendan looks at him incredulously.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just... be normal. Be..." He considers his next words carefully, and even though he's not sure if they fit, if what he's saying makes any sense, he says it. "Brendan. Be Brendan."

He hears an intake of breath. When he turns to look he finds Brendan facing away from him, elbow pressed up against the edge of the car window.

"Brendan, did you -"

"I heard you." It's muffled, spoken through his fingers.

It feels like that's his cue to leave.

He doesn't say anything. He reaches for the handle of the door and braces himself to feel the hit of the cold from outside.

There's a hand on him, stopping him. It's firm but it doesn't hurt; it's not the pain that makes him turn. It's the shock of it, the shock of being touched when he wasn't expecting it. The shock of who's touching him.

He doesn't look at Brendan. He looks down at his hand, at the way it's curled around his arm. Again Ste's struck by the strangeness of it; he knows Brendan should feel cold, that there should be no warmth from his skin, but his touch is flooded with heat. It makes all the hairs on Ste's arms stand on end.

Slowly he raises his eyes.

"Let me drive you home."

"No." His voice is decisive, stubborn. Getting into a car with a rotter is one thing. The doors being locked, a seatbelt strapped around him, being driven somewhere - it's something entirely different. That wasn't part of this. That wasn't what he'd planned.

"It's freezing outside." Brendan must be using guesswork. He won't be able to feel any of it. "It's winter, for Christ's sake," he adds, as though he knows what Ste's thinking.

"I've got a coat."

"I can see, you know."

"I'm just saying. I'll be fine." He doesn't know why he has to justify himself.

Brendan mutters under his breath. Ste only manages to pick up a few words, but he's sure _that estate_ is one of them.

"What? What did you just say?" Within moments he's furious, all fired up. It's one thing for him to insult where he lives - he and Amy have done that enough times - but it's another for someone else to.

Does the rotter think he's better than him, living where he lives, having the flat that he has? There had been no peeling wallpaper at Brendan's. Everything had looked new; no dust on the mirror that Ste had stood in front of, no stains on the carpet that he'd walked on, no fraying of the pillows that he'd sat against.

"Sack this, I'm off."

He opens the car door before Brendan can stop him. He's walking so quickly that he momentarily forgets the cold, and then when he feels it he wills himself not to, doesn't want Brendan to be right. He'll be fine. He can get the bus if he has to. There's nothing wrong with _that estate._ Everything in that flat, everything that they have, they've earned. There's nothing dishonest about it. He hasn't done anything wrong.

He hears his name being called again and again. At first he thinks it's fading, but then the voice gets unmistakably clearer, louder, and he knows Brendan's close.

 _This is it. He's going to pick me up, get me in his car, drive off, kill me._

"Will you just stop?"

"No," Ste calls out, knows he shouldn't because it's exactly what Brendan wants, this back and forth game. His teeth are chattering lightly, his arms wrapped around himself as he runs.

This wasn't the way it was meant to be. He's going to have to kill this man, this _thing_ \- not now, and maybe not tomorrow, or next week, or next month, but one day, one day it's going to happen. And yet he's the one who's running.

It's all mixed up. All fucked up.

He stops so abruptly that Brendan runs into him. Ste nearly falls over, feels himself buckle until Brendan pulls him up, steadies him. Ste shakes himself free of his hold.

"I'm not coming with you. No way. And if you kill me then that sister of yours, your Cheryl, she'll..."

He doesn't know what his threat consists of, but he knows that Cheryl's important to Brendan. Ste had seen it that first time in the flat; that's all it had taken, just a few moments of watching them together, seeing how easy they were with each other, how Brendan trusted her, let down his guard like he never had before. She's the key to this. She's got to be, otherwise Ste has no other way of getting what he wants.

"You promised you would be Brendan."

"So?" He looks frustrated, and his earlier words come back to Ste: _What do you want me to do?_

"So, you wouldn't be wanting to drive me home, would you? The Brendan who I met in that room, in that cage, he wouldn't... He wouldn't do that."

"You got in my car."

The words seem impossible. Ste can hear the absurdity of them: the fact that he willingly put himself in that situation, that it wasn't even the first time that he's done something reckless where the rotter's concerned.

"I'm going now. I'll see you tomorrow."

Ste doesn't expect a reply, doesn't get one. The rotter's fists are clenched at his side, his jaw set.

He doesn't feel Brendan pulling him back, doesn't hear his name being called again. When he turns his head he doesn't see the car trailing him, or the shine of headlights, or the sound of footsteps. There's no sign of Brendan, no indication that he's not alone, but still he can't shake the sense that he's being followed home.

And then Ste remembers: The muttering. _That estate._

He'd never told Brendan where he lives.


	13. Chapter 13

What had felt like an abrupt, impossible change is something he gets used to. Daily patrols give way to community work. Every morning he has enough time to see the kids before they go to school and nursery and then he's off, out of the house and meeting Tony at whatever place Warren's arranged for them to work at that day. It takes him a week, two weeks to adjust, and then it creeps up on him slowly, the feeling of familiarity. The gradual realisation that he can do this, that what was hard in the beginning is becoming, if not easier, then manageable.

He's still not getting respect from his group, but there's less of a chance to tease him now that Tony's around. It feels safer having him there, not just protection from the rotters but protection from himself, from the doubts that filter through in the quiet moments; the voice in his head that tells him that he's no good, that he can't do this, that he's going to ruin it all.

There are the shaky moments: every morning when he leaves he has to tell Amy if today's the day. At the start she'd ask him directly, but now she doesn't have to. Ste tells her when they're at the door, holds her face in his hands, because if he's touching her, looking at her, talking to her, then he hopes she's more inclined to believe him. It's not a complete lie, he tells himself - he will be killing something, one day soon. She just doesn't need to know exactly what it is. What he says to her is enough to make her leave him, to let him go, and it sustains them both.

He's close to running late this morning. He's been meaning to shave for days now but hasn't got around to it, and the week old stubble coupled with his HVF uniform makes him stop and stare in the mirror. He looks older, for the first time in a long while, perhaps ever, and he doesn't know if he likes it. The shadows under his eyes still haven't gone away, and his hair is free from product, unruly. He'll have to do; he knows Tony's not inclined to tell Warren tales if he's late, but he's not willing to risk him finding out. He has Danny to think about too now.

::::::

They're meeting in the centre of the village today. He can see how uneasy it makes some of the rotters; they're on display here, not out of the way like they sometimes are, and their reactions range from trying to shrink themselves as small as possible to being shamelessly vocal. Ste can hear Jacqui before he can see her, and when he rounds the corner he watches as she bears her teeth at a woman walking past, acting the monster. It has the desired effect, the woman cowering away, but there's also a final act of defiance, a muttered _disgusting_ under her breath.

Jacqui begins to race after her, nearly crashes into Ste in her attempt to do so.

"Morning," he says, a little too loudly, drawing the attention of the group. He tries to block Jacqui from moving. She's putting up a good fight, craning her neck to follow the woman with her eyes like she's committing her features to memory. "Everything alright?" He stares her down until she finally looks at him, and he can see the internal argument she's having with herself: stay or go, calm down or lash out.

She steps back, joins the circle that the group have made, crosses her arms and resolutely ignores him now that he's got in the way of her longed for fight.

He knows before he takes the register that Brendan's missing. He does a quick scan, does it again when he notices his absence, thinking he's made a mistake. He expects to see him hiding behind someone, but it's a foolish hope; Brendan never hides.

"Anyone seen Brendan?"

They don't care. They don't even answer him; just look around the group, vacant expressions on their faces. He can't avoid the relief that's there within some of them, like Brendan's absence is a welcome surprise.

He wants to shout, wants to shake them.

"Rhys?" He asks him because he's the one who's had the most contact with Brendan - in the form of mocking and general irritation, admittedly, but it still stands.

Rhys shakes his head. Fucking useless.

"Tony, did he call you?"

Tony gets his phone out, checks.

"Nothing. It's only a few minutes. He could still show up."

He hasn't been late yet, not for Ste. It's been a cause of frustration for Warren; he wants Brendan to do something, _anything_ against the grain. Warren wants to be able to say _yes, this is the dirt we've got on him. This is what he's done_.

Malachy's smirking. He's _glad_.

"I'm gonna call him," Ste says, hopes that Tony won't question him on why he's got Brendan's number noted down, there from when he'd read his file at the treatment centre.

He gets away from the others, puts enough distance between them that they won't be able to hear the phone call. He's followed though; he feels a hand on his shoulder, and then his phone's being gently taken from his hand, put out of his reach.

"Tony!" He's reaching upwards, trying to get the phone back.

"It hasn't even been five minutes. Give him a chance."

"He's not meant to be late though, is he? Everyone else can get here on time."

"Maybe there's been traffic."

He wants to tell Tony that it's unlikely, not from where Brendan lives. He almost does but then he catches himself, remembers at the last moment that he's not meant to have been to Brendan's house.

"That's no excuse."

"I'm sure he's fine."

It gets in Ste's head then, the idea that he's not. The reassurance twists itself, and the idea that Brendan's very _not_ fine transforms into him being trapped, kept somewhere. What if Warren and Danny have decided to change the plan, deal with Brendan on their own terms? It's been weeks. Maybe they've tired of their original agreement, decided that they'll get rid of Brendan without Ste's help.

Would they drag it out, make Brendan suffer? Or would it be quick, with no chance of saving him even if someone wanted to?

"He can't do this. Everyone else can get here on time. What makes him so special?" He's raised his voice now, knows that the group can hear him. He _wants_ them to. He wants one of them to back him up. He verges on desperate when he turns to Malachy, sure that if anyone's going to take a stand against Brendan then it's going to be him.

 _Come on. Speak. Say something. Tell everyone that Brendan can't do this, that he's meant to be here._

Nothing. He doesn't say a thing.

He takes Tony by surprise when he makes a grab for his phone. He tries to reach for it back but Ste's quicker, puts space between them and starts dialing. He doesn't care if Tony asks him how he knows Brendan's number; he'll deal with that later. He's already psyching himself up, preparing the words, trying to arrange them in the right order. His mind feels fried.

Answerphone. He could scream.

He hangs up. Ten minutes late now.

He's strong, Brendan. Ste can tell, can see it underneath the suits, underneath the coat he'll put on at the end of day when they're all getting ready to leave, the one with the fur lining that Ste's sure would swamp anyone else. He's skinny - _slim_ , rather - but there's a solidity to him. He looks real, not the ghost that Ste had always assumed the rotters would be, slinking into the shadows, skin so thin that it was like paper. So unlike himself and everyone he knows that it would be easy to kill them.

Brendan wouldn't let that happen. He'd be fighting.

There's something else trying to get in, something amongst the panic that's got him in its grip. _Laughter_. It seems to belong to a different place, to a different world, and it's so jarring that it makes Ste feel like he's spinning. His eyes feel blurred; the trees seem to sway alarmingly as he turns and tries to work out who's laughing, who could possibly laugh right now. Don't they know that if something's happened to Brendan then he can't be free, can't find a new job, can't start again with Amy and the kids?

Don't they know that it's him who might have to tell Cheryl about Brendan, and see her face as it falls, as she knows that she never got to say goodbye? Don't they know that he still has Brendan's vest lying in his drawers, that it smells like him? How can their world be so unaffected? How can they not have felt it turn?

It comes into view, the source of the laughter, the woman who's making her way towards the group. Ste almost starts to hide when he sees the blonde hair - _Veronica wouldn't be here, would she? -_ but his heart settles again when he takes in the other features, realises that it's not her.

One look at her uniform and he knows that she's a community police officer. He remembers them from when he was a teenager, remembers the dirty looks they would throw him as he bunked off school and spent all day at the shopping centre in town. He'd got satisfaction out of the fact that they weren't _real_ officers - not the kind who could actually intimidate or arrest you; not as far as Ste had seen, anyway. The extent of their power seemed to be telling kids off for not putting chewing gum in the bin.

He's never seen a community officer quite like this though.

He can hear the murmurs behind him, knows that everyone else is thinking it too. She's _fit_ , like one of the girls in those magazines that Justin was always getting. She's got her hair tied in a neat bun, but it looks like it would reach past her shoulders if it was loose. She's tanned, and it somehow makes her teeth even whiter when she smiles. Ste sees Tony try (and fail) not to look at her breasts.

She's not looking at any of them. She's only looking at one person, and when Ste sees him he nearly drops his phone in his hand.

"You're late."

His voice carries. It feels like everyone turns to look at him, including the blonde, including Brendan. He'd been smiling before - Ste had seen it in the moments before he'd interrupted them - and now it wanes, stretches thin.

Ste walks over, feels like he's marching.

He stops short of shoving Brendan square in the chest.

"We've been waiting."

The rotter doesn't even seem to care. He has the audacity to look away from Ste, focus his attention on the officer.

"Where were we?"

He can't believe it. He can't believe that Brendan's just going to pretend like he hasn't spoken, like he hasn't moved over here. Like he doesn't exist.

"You're twelve minutes late."

"Very precise, Steven." He doesn't look at him when he says it.

"Everyone's been here for ages."

"I don't call twelve minutes ages."

"I thought -"

 _I thought something had happened to you._

"What?" Brendan looks at him this time, and his eyes are so blue that Ste's sure it's the contacts creating a false image. It can't be him.

"Where were you?"

"I bumped into the lovely Carmel here." As he says it he looks at her like he's recalling the moment, a literal _bumping into_ , visualising his body making contact with hers. The blonde - _Carmel_ \- doesn't look away. She doesn't look like she wants to.

"You can't just show up whenever you want. That's not how it works."

He thinks he's being authoritative, direct, but they don't seem to be listening to anything he's saying. They're still staring at each other, and they're _smiling_.

"There's going to have to be some kind of... some kind of _consequence_ , Brendan." He's waiting to feel a hand on his shoulder, for Tony to speak up, to tell Brendan that he's right. But maybe it's better if he doesn't; he can imagine Brendan teasing him for it, telling him that he needs someone to hide behind.

"Going to give me detention?"

Carmel laughs - _giggles_ \- like he's said something hilarious. She slaps Brendan's arm like she's saying _good one_. Brendan stares at her, pleased as punch.

"You're going to have to make up the time." Ste raises his voice above the laughter, which is sounding increasingly shrill to his ears. "At the end of today." He's not sure if he can do this. There's no handbook, no list of rules that says what the rotters can or can't do, or what punishment they could face. It seems to have been assumed that they won't step out of line, and calling Warren for advice seems to have been the only instruction.

Ste doesn't even entertain the idea of calling him.

"Did you hear me?"

He's tempted to wave a hand in front of Brendan's face; the rotter seems to be back to ignoring his existence.

"Did you -"

"Crystal clear." He smooths a hand along his moustache. Carmel watches the movement, giggles again.

Ste considers saying something else - something that would at least claw back some of his dignity that's been lost here - but he's not sure if either of them would hear.

He leaves them, walks back over to Tony and catches a snippet of what the group have been discussing: how the hell Brendan's managed to pull a girl like that, apparently.

"Thought they'd done away with those police officers," Ste says, doing air quotes around _police officers_. "Waste of money."

"Don't let Jacqui hear you say that."

"What? Why?"

"That's her sister."

Ste whips his head around, looks at her again. Tony does the same.

"She's a McQueen? How many of them are there?"

Tony shushes him, head still craned towards Carmel.

"You're kidding me, right?"

"What?" Tony says, sounding distracted. Ste's not sure he's aware of what he's actually said, just that he's said something.

"Carmel McQueen?"

It seems to take a great deal of effort for him to face Ste again.

"What? She's pretty, isn't she? Woman in uniform and all that..."

Ste shakes his head.

"She's a bit..." He tries to find the words, watches as she bats her eyelashes like she's being photographed.

"A bit what?"

"She doesn't exactly seem that... you know..." Ste taps his head.

"Are you calling her stupid?" He sounds faintly amused. It irks Ste; he feels like he's the one who's being laughed at.

"I'm not trying to be mean, right, but -"

"Except you are," Tony says, matter of fact.

"No! No, I'm... I'm just saying, some people are smart, and other people..."

This is the part where Tony will jump in, remind him that he didn't make it to the end of school, that he has next to no qualifications. That he's seen right through his attempt to read the register every day for the past few weeks, and that it hasn't fooled him. This is the part where he says he knows everything, everything that Ste's been trying to hide.

"Lay off her."

Ste hopes he can't see the sigh of relief he breathes.

"I'm not having a go."

"Sounds like it."

"I'm not. It's just..." He scrambles for something, anything. "She doesn't really seem like Jacqui, does she?"

"Just because they're family, doesn't mean they have to be alike. You're not like your mum, are you?"

He looks down, away from Tony, away from Carmel.

"Sorry, I -"

"No, that's..." It's a good thing, he reminds himself. It's good what Tony's said, that he's nothing like his mum. The mention of her shouldn't make him react. It's been _years_. He's gone through all this. He's left it behind.

He shakes himself out of it.

"Just wasn't expecting it. Her Carmel being a copper."

"Copper's stretching it a bit." Tony's looking over at her again, and now it's her that's the subject of the joke. It feels like they're back on safe ground. "It's like you said, she's just one of those community officers, isn't she? Tells people off for throwing litter, gets the teenagers off the swings, that sort of thing. She's harmless."

"Yeah."

Ste's glad that he's not the only one who thinks they're all useless.

She's smiling again, Carmel. _Beaming_.

"She's not scared of him, is she?"

Tony turns to look.

"What, of Brendan?"

"Mm."

"She lives with a rotter, Ste. She's used to it, isn't she?"

"Yeah, but he's different, isn't he? Jacqui looks human, sort of. Brendan's..."

He doesn't know what he means. From a distance Brendan could pass as a man having a night out on the pull, talking to a woman at the bar. There's nothing unusual about it unless you look closer, unless you're trying to find something.

"She's probably just being friendly," Tony says, is already distracted, looking towards his group to make sure that no one's gone anywhere. He's drifting, and if Ste presses him on it then he'll think something's up. _Obsessive_ , he'll think he is, for thinking that something's not right.

By the time Ste's made his way back over to the group he can clearly hear the sound of Carmel laughing. It seems to go on for a long time, and then there's another sound: Brendan, laughing. It makes Ste twist his head back, do a double take. He's heard Brendan's laughter, the manic edge to it, or the way it can be laced with sarcasm, with bitterness. He's sure he's never heard it when it's real.

This laughter ripples with premeditation. It's planned, forced, and it baffles Ste that they can't all see it, that Carmel's smile grows deeper, that the rest of the group don't question it.

He shoves his way past, goes into the corner shop. When he grabs a drink from the fridge he lingers a moment there, lets the cold air cool him down. _How can they not see it?_

::::::

He's close to forgetting about Brendan's punishment completely by the time work's over. It's only when Tony comes over to him that he remembers.

"Want me to stay, help you with Brendan?"

For a second Ste thinks that Tony's somehow found out about Brendan following him in his car. Embarrassment fills him at the idea of what Tony must have seen: all the times Brendan's scared him when Ste's thought he's been someone else, and the way the fear hadn't abated when Ste had found out who it _had_ been. His mind swims with panic, but something logical must get through because he takes a deep breath, realises that Tony couldn't know.

"I can handle him."

"You sure?"

Ste hates how much doubt there is behind his words.

" _Yes_." He's being standoffish now, _Yes I fucking can_ , and he puts a hand over the gun strapped to his uniform, hikes it up so Tony's reminded of who he is, what he is. He may want out of this whole thing, out of the HVF, but he's not going to go out quietly. He's not going to be pathetic. "It'll be good, won't it? This is what Warren wants, for me and him to be... You know. Spending time together."

"Just call me if he tries anything, yeah?"

"If he tries to kill me I don't think I'll have a chance to call for help, do you?"

"Good point." Tony laughs, but there's still that edge of uncertainty that Ste wishes he couldn't see.

"See you tomorrow." It sounds like a reassurance, something binding, and his smile doesn't fall until Tony's walked away. If he can't convince him, then who can he convince?

He'd banked on Brendan pulling a disappearing act. All the teasing about _detention_ and the lack of any discernible worry about punishment had made Ste sure that he'd boycott the whole thing, that he'd go home with the rest of the rotters.

It's a surprise when Ste sees him sitting in Jubilee Gardens. He's staring at the fountain in front of him, and Ste feels like he's intruding when he walks slowly towards him, like Brendan's waiting for something that isn't him.

He clears his throat - not an entirely original form of letting someone know he's there, but he doesn't know how to begin. He'd been so busy watching Brendan and Carmel, making sure that she was safe, that he hadn't considered what he and Brendan would do in this time together.

Ste kicks against the fountain, scuffs his trainers up even more in the process.

"Twelve minutes starts now."

Brendan looks up at him.

"What do you want me to do?"

There's always that _thing_ behind his words. That thing that says that he's not really listening here. That what he's saying may make it sound like he's going to play along, but don't be fooled.

"There's no point in you just sitting here." If Brendan's going to have that tone with him, then he'll have it right back.

Brendan stands up, rubs the back of his trousers clear of any dust that's gathered against the ledge.

"What can we do in twelve minutes?"

" _We're_ not doing anything. _You're_ going to pick up litter."

The look Brendan gives him isn't entirely unwarranted. He's right to be bemused - they've spent all day here; there's nothing left to pick up.

Change of plan.

"Or you can tell me why you were late."

"I got distracted."

"By what?"

Ste's pretty sure he knows the answer already. Brendan's silence only adds to the obviousness of it all.

"Do you want Warren to know what you're doing?" It's an easy way out, his standard threat, and it's not working this time.

"I'm sure he'd be pleased, knowing I'm being friendly with the local community."

"I saw you. I saw you both, and she -"

"Want to try your luck, do you?"

His interjection cuts short everything Ste was going to say, and he feels himself colouring. He hopes it's dark enough so it won't show.

"Don't be stupid."

"Why's that stupid? You like blondes, don't you, Steven?"

He's standing close; Ste can smell his aftershave. He tries to stop himself from instinctively breathing it in.

"She's a copper, isn't she."

"So?"

He doesn't know how to explain without giving himself away. Brendan would only use it for leverage if he knew, would twist his past against him if he found out that it puts Ste on edge, being around the police. He knows it's a irrational worry; he hasn't got anything to be scared about, not anymore, but it's always there, that fear. That memory of what it was like to be shoved into an interview room, the doors closed behind him, the artificial lights making him feel like he was being plunged into a spotlight. All eyes on him.

"She's not my type," he says, and it feels so simple to him, so simple that it ought to make the questions stop, but it doesn't.

"I thought she'd be everyone's type." Brendan looks genuinely puzzled, like he's trying to work it all out.

"She's not mine."

He looks like he wants to press Ste further, but he doesn't let him.

"I mean it, Brendan. Leave her alone."

"Free country, Steven. No law against talking to a pretty lady."

"What's in it for you?"

"Thought that would be obvious."

Brendan gives him a smile, all gleaming teeth with his trademark gum visible.

"Just be careful."

"You worried about me?"

"I'm talking about her." He doesn't for a moment think that Brendan will listen to him, but if he's said it then at least he knows he's done something, that he can't be accused of sitting back and letting it all happen.

"Is it because I'm a rotter?"

 _Obviously_ is Ste's first thought, but then something stronger overtakes it, and he sees with clarity that he wouldn't be like this if it had been Rhys or Malachy talking to Carmel. He's not sure he'd be able to shake the feeling that it would be wrong somehow, a rotter and a human, but his heart wouldn't have sped up. He wouldn't have wanted to take Carmel's hand and forced her to run.

"No. It's because you're you."

The way Brendan's looking at him, it makes Ste want to look away. There's an intensity there that he's never experienced before. If Brendan told him that he was capable of reading his mind, Ste would believe him.

He's expecting Brendan to ask him what he means, to explain. _I don't trust you with her because of who you are. I don't think I would have trusted the human you with her either._ Ste wants him to ask, wants to be able to show Brendan that it's not always about the divide between them, the noticeable differences; it's about thinking that so much of what Brendan does was also done by him when he was alive.

"Time's up."

"What?"

"You've had your twelve minutes. Detention's over."

Ste looks at his phone to make sure he's right. Twelve minutes exactly. How has he done that? It's felt like nothing, like they haven't even started.

"If you're late again, then you -"

"I won't be." He's turned his back on him, has already put a considerable amount of distance between them. Ste has to shout to be heard.

"And if you're gonna try and give me a lift again -" _Don't bother_ is on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said. Brendan cuts through him.

"Don't flatter yourself."

::::::

He misses a phone call, only notices when he's half way home that he's got a voicemail. He's decided to walk, tries to channel the irritation he's feeling into it. The cool air feels good against his skin. With every step he goes over the way he'd left things with Brendan. The way Brendan had left things with _him_. The rotter had been the one to have the last word, and everything Ste could have said is present now, trapped where it can never be heard. One day he'll be the kind of person who's got the witty reply, who says exactly the right thing.

He checks his voicemail, comes to a halt when he hears Warren's voice on the other end of the line. _Change of plan_ , he's saying, _you're meeting with Danny today. Come straight over._

What would happen if he pretended he was busy? If he said that he didn't look at his phone, that it ran out of battery? Would Warren believe him?

He can't take the risk. It's not a request, what Warren's saying; he's not asking Ste if he wants to come. It makes him uneasy, the change of plan, the last minute arrangements. He's glad that it went to voicemail - glad that he could avoid Warren that little bit longer - but at least if he'd picked up then he could have got some idea as to what this is all about. He could have worked out Warren's mood, and how much he needs to worry about being alone with him and Danny.

He texts Amy as is his usual routine; he needs her to know where he is if he doesn't come back. It's all too soon when he gets to Warren's house, and he stalls outside, leans against the wall and looks for any signs of twitching curtains, but everything seems still. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a car alarm starts blaring. Anyone watching him now would see his fingers drumming against the wall, his bottom lip sore and reddened, the skin peeling where he's chewed it.

 _They know about me going to the treatment centre. They know about me going to Brendan's house. They know about me getting in his car, about Veronica saying that he's involved in something. They know about all the things I've been hiding._

He feels like he can't walk in a straight line when he moves to the door. Even his knock sounds shaky, uncertain.

Warren opens, ushers him in. Ste's already preparing to be shown downstairs, for the door to close behind them both, the dim light of the basement to be his new surroundings. He doesn't expect the hand on his arm, or the way he's almost dragged backwards, stumbling on his feet.

"He's in a bad mood." Warren's mouth is close to Ste's ear, and he's doing that thing where he's whispering, but it's so full of fury that he may as well be shouting.

 _Is he ever in a good mood?_ The retort would be spoken if it wasn't for the way Warren's looking at him; Danny's not the only one who's in a bad mood.

"He's tired of getting nothing." There's an accusation there: _Tired of getting nothing from you._

"I'm doing the best I can," Ste says, can't help himself, even if it does end up making Warren look more tightly wound.

"Not good enough. You better start speaking, or..."

This doesn't seem like a warning now, or a threat: it seems like a plea, and for a fleeting moment Warren looks desperate. His eyes flicker around the room, and when Ste follows his gaze he realises that he's looking towards the basement door. He looks like he wants to go down there just as much as Ste does.

"Warren -"

"Get down there."

Each time Ste's gone he hopes for the room to be flooded with light. _Air_. He hopes that there have been windows fitted, that he won't feel the claustrophobia set in as he walks down the stairs, that he won't worry about tripping over his own feet because of the darkness. It's a futile wish, and one he has to confront as a fantasy when the door opens and he's led away from the outside, from the chance of escape.

Danny's waiting for him. He's always waiting. He's still as Ste comes down the stairs - he holds onto the bannister the entire time, as though this little thing matters in the face of everything that's to come - and it's not until Ste's on his level that he propels himself into action, moving across the room before Ste's been able to draw another breath.

Ste doesn't sit down, he's _forced_ down, Danny's hands on his shoulders steering him into his seat. He lands with a jolt, instinctively wanting to get up again, to get as far away from him as possible, but he feels trapped. Flight or fight, isn't that what it's called? He feels unable to do either.

He looks towards Warren, sees the way he's watching them both, and Ste convinces himself that it's a form of protection, that Warren being here is a good thing. The lesser of two evils.

"Talk."

It's how Danny's begun their meetings for the last two weeks. He barks it out, a command, _talk_ , and he grows restless if Ste doesn't speak fast enough, if he doesn't tell him something that he wants to hear. The problem is that Ste doesn't know what that is, doesn't know what Danny's expecting, and everything he tells him seems to irritate him further.

"He's been quiet. He's still not really talking to the group."

"Any fights?"

Ste shakes his head. There's been nothing since the incident with Malachy. It's not what Danny wanted; he looks more strained, walks up and down the room, throws a glance at Warren.

"Come on, what else?"

Ste falters. The desperation to find something only makes it more difficult; his panic is stopping him from being able to think. He's sure the two men must be able to hear his heart beating from where they stand.

Danny comes closer. His face is set, and when he leans over and places his hands either side of the chair Ste can smell the beer on his breath.

"What else?" He repeats, and he's getting like he always does when Ste hesitates. It's like a ticking time bomb, his own countdown of when he's going to pass the point of Danny's put on politeness, make the transition into him reminding Ste that he's here to feed them information, and if that isn't happening then he may as well not be here at all.

"I saw him talking to a copper." He says it because there's nothing else, nothing else that he can think of, and when it's out of his mouth he waits for the laughter to begin, to be told that he's fucked up again, that he's _useless_. For Danny to sling him from the chair and tower over him where he lies on the floor. He's poised for it.

Danny stops pacing.

"A copper?"

"Carmel McQueen."

It doesn't feel right saying her name. He thinks of her laughter, of the openness of her smile and the way she'd approached them all with a lack of fear that had set her apart from so much of the village. She doesn't belong in this room with these men.

"The rotter's sister?"

He hadn't expected Danny to know who she is.

He nods, doesn't want to be made to say any more, but he's done it now. He can't take it back, and for the first time they're interested. He can feel the air change.

"What did he say to her?"

"Don't know, it was..."

 _It was nothing._ He doesn't want to involve her in this.

"What did he say, Ste?"

How does Danny do that? How does he say his name like it's a threat?

"He was flirting with her."

There's no other way to describe it. The falseness of Brendan's laugh, the way he'd given Carmel his undivided attention, so different to the way he treated anyone else.

He's not sure Danny and Warren have heard him; there seems to be no reaction, no movement, no discernible change.

"He was like, laughing at her. And being all, you know. _Friendly_." The terms don't seem to equate with everything he's seen of Brendan. He could be talking about someone else entirely, would think he is if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.

He opens his mouth, is about to go on when Danny interrupts, voice sharp and rising above him.

"I know what flirting is."

Warren gives a short laugh.

They don't understand, either of them. They don't understand how _bizarre_ this is coming from Brendan.

"Show him out." Danny's turned to Warren, is already acting like they're done here, conversation closed.

Ste stands up before they can grab him from his seat; it wouldn't be the first time it's happened, and he'd rather leave on his own terms this time. He inches past Danny, tries to keep their bodies as separate as possible, no point of contact. He lets Warren go ahead of him on the stairs, likes to keep him where he can see him. The small glimpse of light that's visible from the crack in the door is what he focuses on, telling himself he's getting closer and closer, that he's nearly there. When the door opens he takes a breath of air, feels himself begin to calm down now he's in the main house again, away from the basement.

"She's not going to be in trouble, is she?"

Warren stares at him blankly.

"Carmel."

"Danny doesn't hurt women."

He's not sure if it's the truth or if Warren's managed to convince himself with his own lies.

"She hasn't done anything, she's not -"

"You on patrol with Tony tonight?"

He knows he won't be able to change the subject back now. Warren's fixed on moving on.

"On my own tonight."

For a second Ste imagines if this was an alternate universe, and what Warren's reply would be: _Stay safe. Be careful. Make sure you're armed. Let someone in the group know when you're home._

Or: _I'll go with you._

"See you tomorrow" is what he says, his voice gruff, his body already turning back to the basement, his hand reaching out for the door.

When Ste's out of the house he wonders if this is how Veronica had felt when he'd left her.

 _Good fucking riddance._

Maybe she'd seen him how he sees the two men; something dangerous, something unwanted, something that would only bring trouble to her life. He strains to recall exactly how she'd looked when he'd last seen her: specifically, if she'd been scared. He doesn't know if it's wishful thinking that creates a vision of her anger instead. It feels preferable to fear.

Had she also wondered whether she'd just put Brendan's life at risk by revealing what she had? All Ste had found out was that they'd been involved in something together, and the knowledge of what that something is is still as unclear as it had been that day. But it must have led her to realise, as he realises now, that what she'd said had dropped Brendan in it.

Danny and Warren had been wrong. The rotter hadn't been the one to tie the noose around his neck. Ste had done it for him.


	14. Chapter 14

He's awake before the kids are, before Amy is. He scribbles a note, leaves it in the kitchen, _going to work early_ , and then he's creeping out of the flat as quietly as he can, gun already strapped to his uniform. He's still adjusting to the early morning chill, and even when he buries his hands inside his pockets his knuckles still take on a purple tone.

He's not meeting Tony for hours. He's sure most of the rotters won't even be awake yet. Ste had left his own bed - warm, covers enveloping him like his own personal makeshift den - to sit bolt upright, throwing on whatever underwear he came across first, socks covering the carpet from when he'd been too tired the night before to put them away. He'd known that he couldn't stay there, that he couldn't face the pointless attempts to get back to sleep, or the way he would have tried to force breakfast down if he'd made anything. Getting out had seemed the better option, the _safer_ option, and his walk from the estate into town is uninterrupted. He doesn't pass a single soul.

There's an argument raging in his head, a war. It's been there since last night, since he left Warren's house, and nothing has silenced it. He'd be okay if it was an equal fight - if the part of him that's rational could stand a chance. But the buzz in his mind, the _loudness_ , it's telling him that he's already lost. That what he let slip to Warren and Danny has already escalated. The domino effect: that's what they call it, isn't it? When one thing sends everything else crashing down.

What he'd said about Carmel had meant something. It's impossible to avoid that, impossible to think that Danny hadn't reacted when he'd told him about seeing her and Brendan together. He's tried to pinpoint exactly what is was, whether it was the mention of her name, or her being a community police officer, or something else that Ste doesn't yet know. He can't remember - doesn't _want_ to remember - but there's something about the way he'd quickly been shown the door, as though he had said what he'd needed to say. As though they didn't need anything else from him.

Satisfaction. That's what Danny had been: _satisfied_. For the first time Ste had witnessed, and he doesn't have a clue why.

He can't be responsible for something happening to the girl. He's gone through it, gone round and round until it's felt like he might explode with the weight of it, with the guilt that's already started to form. The excuses have started; if she's been hurt then it wasn't _him_. He can't be blamed. He didn't touch her, wasn't the one to lay a hand on her. No one could arrest him for anything, so how could it be his fault? He'll be comforted by this for a second, perhaps longer if he's lucky, but then he'll think how ordinary she had seemed, how naive, not someone who would ever be involved in the world that he'd suddenly dragged her into. It had been him who had mentioned her name, no one else, and there was a good chance that Danny and Warren never would have found out about her connection with Brendan otherwise.

He's in the village now. He sits by the fountain, looks at the same spot that he'd kicked the night before when Brendan had been with him. He'd like to think that he would have left some mark, something lasting and permanent, but there's nothing. The only thing he has to show for it is a bruise that's starting to form on his skin. A killer of rabids who has the strength of a small child; there must be a certain irony there.

Someone's looking at him, a woman who was passing by and who's now stopped. She makes him feel _disturbing_ , hurrying away when she sees he's noticed her like she's afraid she may catch something. He knows it's entirely possible that he looks more like a rotter than a human; the dark circles that line his eyes these days and the pallor of his complexion - something he gets when he feels on edge, he knows - make him look sick, unlike himself. Would the woman be screaming if he wasn't in uniform, thinking that she would be attacked in this early hour?

He can't stay here. He doesn't want to be stared at, a spectacle, out in the open air for people to gawp at. He escapes into a nearby coffee shop, grabs a table and mumbles his order when someone comes to serve him. He gets the cheapest thing on the menu, doesn't look at the person when he asks for it, talks into the table like he's digging himself a grave there.

He's the only customer, and it takes him a moment to become aware of someone joining him. He looks over to the counter, feels a flicker of familiarity before looking back down, trying to place the person but unable to do so. He's heard them order a coffee to go - that's good, the _to go_ part - and he waits for them to leave. His heart drops when they don't, when they spot him.

She smiles, the girl. He doesn't know if it's deliberate, the way she does it like it's calculated almost, coy, and - is he imagining it? - flirtatious.

 _Please don't come over._ He clearly doesn't look his best if the woman's reaction was anything to go by, and he feels uncomfortable that he doesn't remember who the girl is. He's been in this situation before, someone knowing his name but him not knowing theirs. It never ends well.

There's some relief when she doesn't address him like that. _Hello_ is what she says, and she approaches him almost cautiously, like she's not sure if she's allowed to.

The _Hiya_ he gives is awkward, full of uncertainty, and he's half expecting to receive a slap for his complete transparency, for how very clear it is that he doesn't know who she is.

She doesn't slap him. She laughs.

"We met a few days ago. I work at the pub. You came there with your..." She gestures like she's not quite sure how to finish it, and it's then that he remembers. The girl from The Dog who'd brought him and Tony their food and drinks. The girl Tony had eyed up, who he'd said was looking at Ste.

It's plain to see that she doesn't know what to call the rotters. He helps her out.

"The group. They're working for me. Doing stuff in the community. It's for... you know... rehabilitation." He stumbles over the word, brazens it out with a cough. "Kind of."

She nods like it's unimaginable to think that it could ever be for anything else.

"Rather you than me. I don't think I could keep them under control." She does a little shudder - real or put on for his benefit, he's not sure - and laughs.

He knows how much Brendan would hate it if he could overhear; the idea of the group needing to be kept under control.

Some people join the Human Volunteer Force for moments like these. To revel in the glory, to be able to say _Yes, I did that. I did what everyone else was too scared to do._

"It's nothing." He shrugs, feels a prickle of heat on the back of his neck.

"Are you kidding?" She shakes her head at him like he's gone daft, and maybe he has, because Tony was right: she's pretty, the kind of pretty that's mesmerising to look at for too long, but all he wants to do is run.

She's going to sit with him. It hits him as she takes a step closer, eyeing the chair that's next to him.

"Your coffee's ready."

"What?"

She stops. He'd said that loudly, hadn't he? A little too loudly. It feels like the man serving is looking at him too.

"Your coffee, it's..." Ste looks towards the counter, waits until the girl looks too, and then he uses the chance to stand up. He attempts to draw back his seat quietly, but it scrapes along the floor like it's purposefully trying to defy him.

She's got her coffee now - a to go cup like she'd asked for, he notices - but she's still not going.

"Are you leaving?"

He's not sure if he's imagining her disappointment.

"Sorry, got to get to work." He doesn't have to look at the time to know that he's still got hours. He's relieved when she doesn't question him.

"Okay." There's a finality to it like she's going to go too, but then she doesn't; she does a double take like she's changed her mind, and then she's standing closer than before and speaking down to her cup.

It would be good to see him again at The Dog. That's what she says, and there's none of the giggling or coquettishness that Ste had seen from Carmel yesterday. She's straight to the point, so casual that he's second guessing himself as she speaks, unable to settle on whether she's saying it just to be polite, or whether -

She doesn't have any reason to be polite. She doesn't owe him anything, but the idea that it could be anything more makes him feel dazed. This doesn't happen to him. He doesn't get chatted up in coffee shops. He doesn't get chatted up, ever.

 _Sure_ , is what he should say. She's not asking for his number, not asking for anything off him.

"I'm seeing someone."

His words have a nasty habit of getting out without his permission. He wishes he could swallow them back up.

She falters. He's made this a thousand times more uncomfortable than it needed to be.

"I wasn't..." She was. They both know she was. "Okay," she says, because what else is there to say?

"I live with her. She's the mother of my kids." It feels like a necessary addition; a girl this age won't want to be stuck with a father of two, never mind if he's saying he's already got a girlfriend. It's baggage. She'll be glad she got a lucky escape.

The girl - he realises then that he still doesn't know her name - says something else, but it's hazy like it's floating right past him. She's no longer keen to stay; after a rushed goodbye she's out of there as quickly as possible, the door swinging shut behind her.

He's getting some sugar from the stand when the man serving behind the counter comes up next to him.

"Whoever she is, she better be hot." He laughs, and Ste's own answering laugh sounds painfully forced to his ears, enough to rival Brendan's.

He can't stay here, not now, not if there's still a chance that the girl could come back, although he knows he's going to have to see her again anyway; he can't avoid the pub forever, especially as it's always been the HVF's meeting place. He just hopes that no one in the group will pick up on anything, that Tony doesn't make any more suggestions on who he should and should not ask out.

He downs his tea. It hasn't cooled and he can feel the roof of his mouth burning, but he wills himself to ignore the sensation and keep going. He doesn't stop until his cup's empty, and then he goes to the bathroom, making sure that the stalls are all free. He locks himself away in one, his breath rattling in his throat.

He manages to make it to the toilet before the retching starts. He's kneeling on the floor, panting hard in between, and within seconds he's turned ashen, sweat gathered on his forehead and waiting for the sick to come. It doesn't - all that comes from him is air, like he's too empty for anything else - but it takes several minutes before he feels strong enough to be on his feet again.

He hears knocking from outside. At first he thinks it's the pressure inside his head, but it grows louder, more insistent. Someone must have heard him. If he thought he looked bad before then he must look even worse now. He doesn't want to go outside, not like this.

"Who is it?" He sounds meek when he says it, red riding hood to the big bad wolf. That's not him - he's got a _gun_ strapped to him - but he still feels shaken up, surprised at himself for this reaction, for feeling so weak.

There's no reply. They could have gone, whoever it is, but he hasn't heard footsteps. He can't see a shadow, but he can sense that there's someone behind the door.

He checks himself over, makes sure that what he can see looks presentable. He gets some tissue and wipes it over his face as though it'll heal it, as though it'll no longer be something alarming.

He draws back the bolt, the door squeaking as it opens.

"You." His mouth's open. He sees his reflection in the mirror opposite him, registers the shock on his face. He shouldn't have bothered with the tissue; he can't imagine that it made anything better. He looks like a stranger, or a distant version of himself that he can't reach.

What he should do is head towards the exit. That would be the smart thing. What he does instead is try to turn around and go back to where he was, to the safety of the cubicle. He's half way inside it when there are hands on the door, and the protests are leaving his mouth, cries of frustration because he knows what's coming. The last thing he wants to do is to be forced to stay here and talk. He's sure he'll be sick for real this time.

"Brendan, get off." He sounds tired, desperately so, and the way he hits against the rotter's hands is feeble, like he's not trying even though he is, _he is trying._ He lands blow after blow across Brendan's body, but he may as well be made out of marble for all the good it does.

Ste comes to a standstill, but it's his words which are attacking now, reining down on the rotter like a fist.

"Are you stalking me now?"

He's not sure if the _now_ is needed. Brendan's car trailing him after work. The feeling that he's being followed home. Brendan creeping up behind him at the pub and overhearing his conversations when Ste hadn't even been aware of his presence. This isn't a new development.

Brendan tracks his face, eyes moving swiftly over his features.

"Answer me." Ste hates this, hates that things can never be direct, can never be honest with him. It can't be a coincidence, Brendan being here at this hour when most of the village is still asleep. There's been too many coincidences with them, too much that's unexplained for it to be innocent. But the way Brendan treats him whenever he tries to tell him this, it's like _he's_ the crazy one.

"I was getting a coffee."

He holds it up, his takeaway cup, and it's the first time Ste's noticed it. He couldn't even wrestle himself free from Brendan when he's one handed.

"Three sugars. Don't tell my sister."

"And you just happened to come here when I'm here too?"

"Small world, Steven." He stands back on the balls of his feet, takes a sip of his drink. Foam gathers on his moustache - a regular occurrence with Brendan, Ste's beginning to notice - and he wipes it with the back of his hand.

Ste shoves past him, is relieved when Brendan lets him, and then he's washing his hands in the sink, and after a quick glance at his face he washes that too; he hopes it'll bring some life back into it.

He grips the edges of the sink when he's done, uses it to hold himself up.

"What's wrong?" Brendan's grave now, not taking his eyes off him.

"Nothing."

"I heard you being sick."

"I wasn't sick."

" _Nearly_ being sick. What's the difference?"

"You shouldn't have been listening."

If Brendan wasn't here he'd drink from the water too; he could do with it, could use it to wash away the taste of bile that's at the back of his throat.

"You look awful."

"Thanks."

Brendan's not wrong - he does look awful, but he'd hoped to be in ignorance about it for a little bit longer.

"I just mean..." He sighs, out of exasperation or something else that Ste can't recognise, and then he's forging ahead. "You usually look... but not now. Now you look -"

"I don't need to hear it again." Ste bows his head, acutely aware of how much he doesn't want to be seen. He thought it was bad enough around strangers, around the man serving him, around the girl whose name he never learned, but this - this feels more personal. He has nowhere to hide here.

"What's wrong?" Brendan says again, and Ste envies him, how he stands there looking so put together, such a contrast to himself and the earliness of the hour. Do rotters sleep? _Can they?_ It unsettles him that it's such a blank area. He's been in the HVF for years and he doesn't know the most simple of things; he's not sure if he's ever wanted to know before now.

"Do you sleep?"

The question sounds odd now it's out of his mouth. It doesn't seem to make sense, not like how it did in his mind, and it's something that he's sure Brendan will laugh at or brush away, refusing to answer.

There's silence, then in the quiet of the bathroom Brendan's voice fills the room, the only sound except for the dripping of the tap that won't seem to shut off completely.

"Yes, I sleep."

He's offended him. He doesn't know why he thinks this, but he knows that he has, that irritation is settling under the surface, that Brendan's struggling to contain it.

Ste finds himself trying to justify it.

"I wasn't sure. I know there's some things you can't..." _Can't do_ , he's about to say. _Can't feel_. He shuts up, rearranges the words. "I know there's some things that are different."

He's not sure it sounds any better. Does it sound like an accusation, a way of dividing them again?

 _Different_.

"I can sleep."

It reminds Ste of something, and it takes him a moment to realise: the way he'd told Brendan again and again that he can read, _he can_ , and how important it was then for him to understand that, and how important it seems to Brendan now that he understands this.

"I can't." He leans heavily against the sink, feels it digging into his skin.

"What do you -"

"I'm not sleeping. When I do I have these..." He feels a shiver ripple through him, the exhaustion that's gathered over the last few weeks being released, freed from where he's kept it so confined. He's tired. He's so, so tired of it all. "I have these nightmares."

He looks at Brendan to make sure he's not laughing. He isn't. He isn't mocking him either, isn't asking him why at his age he's still scared of the things he dreams, so unable to control it.

"What nightmares?"

He can't tell him. He knows that already. He can't tell him what he sees, that he imagines being cornered by rotters, that he's always being chased, that there's only ever a dead end and a sinking feeling when he wakes. That the memory of it lingers for the rest of the day, and insomnia feels like the safer alternative.

He can't tell him that he's dreamed of him.

"Just nightmares."

"Is that why you were nearly sick? Because you had a..."

Ste shakes his head.

Brendan waits, and Ste knows what he's waiting for. He watches as the rotter grows impatient when he doesn't say more; his fists clench and unclench, and he's doing that thing with his fingers again. Twitching.

They must look a mess, the pair of them. If anyone walked in and saw them they'd think they were both out of their minds.

"Something going on at home? Something with..." Brendan stops, looks up to the ceiling like there's someone there who could help him find the words.

"With what?"

"That girl of yours?"

Ste doesn't understand what this is.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Something's fucking you up."

Ste takes a short, sharp breath.

"I'm not fucked up."

It would help if his voice hadn't chosen to shake at that precise moment. It would help if the words didn't echo around the bathroom walls, his own hysteria repeated back to him.

"Not sleeping. Having nightmares. Creeping out in the early hours, being jumpy when anyone talks to you. Running into the bathroom to... Come on, Steven."

"What do you mean, creeping out? Were you watching me today? You were, weren't you? Were you following me and all?"

"Being paranoid," Brendan says, like he's still continuing the list.

"Shut up. I'm not being _paranoid_. You followed me from work, didn't you? You've done it before, so you can't say you never."

Brendan doesn't even have the good grace to look ashamed.

"Fine, you want to know why I didn't sleep last night? Why I came in here and nearly... Because of Carmel, alright. Because of her."

"The McQueen?" He says it like it's something unwanted stuck to his shoe.

Ste's ready to tell him. He's so close to saying it: the meeting he'd had with Danny and Warren, how he'd told them about Carmel and how there had been a shift, a change in the room like he had said something right for once, something important. How he'd walked from the house and something had felt wrong, and how he hasn't been able to shake it since.

All the meetings Ste's had, all the things he's told Warren and Danny, the whole reason why he'd gone there in the first place, it all links back to one thing. If he lets anything slip then it'll all come crumbling down, a web of lies unraveling, and at the end of it will be the entire purpose of this: that soon Brendan will be gone, forever.

Brendan won't let him leave this bathroom once he knows. He'll kill him before he can scream.

The only thing Ste manages is: "I need to know she's safe."

Brendan's face switches within a second. It's like a light going out.

"You think I hurt her?"

When his fists clench this time they stay like that. His shoulders are rigid, and despite the blue of the contacts his eyes appear dark, fixed on him.

 _No_ is the truth. No is the only answer Ste has. No he doesn't think Brendan's hurt her, not yet. He doesn't know what Brendan has planned for her, only knows that whatever it is makes him uneasy, makes him want her as far away from him as possible. But the rotter's not stupid - he wouldn't show up with her one day and then kill her the next, making people easily reach the conclusion that there's a connection there. No one would suspect a connection between Carmel and Danny.

He's hesitated for too long.

Brendan charges towards him, pins him further against the sink. If it was digging into him before then it's unbearable now, but it's not Brendan touching him, isn't Brendan forcing him there. It's _him_. It's Ste that's backing himself into a corner, closing his eyes and waiting for the blows to start.

There are hands on his face, Brendan's thumb brushing over his lips, and then no more than a whisper.

"You just can't keep that mouth shut, can you?"

That's not what he meant. He needs to tell Brendan that, but his jaw feels locked, and what difference does it make what Brendan thinks he believes?

"Open your eyes."

Ste does it, reluctantly, and at the same time he feels Brendan's thumb move from his lips to his eyelashes, sweeping across them. Ste doesn't flinch. His hands are surprisingly gentle now, but still Ste presses himself against the sink, leaning away as Brendan leans in.

The air feels warm between them. He forgets momentarily that they're in the middle of the village, inside a coffee shop, in close proximity to people on the other side of the wall. They could be back in the treatment centre again, locked inside the cage, but now there are no bars keeping Ste here; now he can walk away freely, but he stays rooted to the spot.

He's waiting for a punch that doesn't come.

Brendan steps back from him. It feels like a pattern now, something that Ste's experienced again and again: the rotter getting so close that it feels like there's no space between then, and in another instant they're separated, and the room is cold again.

Brendan's looking at him like he hates him.

"How do you think I did it?" He's in front of the door now; if anyone were to come in they'd be blocked by him. "Snapped her neck, did I? Ate her brains?"

He's laughing, laughing at Ste, making a mockery of the whole thing, and it almost catches on - Ste can hear how ridiculous it sounds, especially when Brendan flashes his teeth like he's trying to prove the point that they're nothing, they're normal. they're _human_. They don't look capable of tearing chunks out of someone. His nails aren't sharp; they're clipped, neat. If it wasn't for his anger he wouldn't be frightening. He wouldn't look like a killer.

"Have you talked to her? This morning, have you..."

"No."

Not _No, I don't have her number._ Just _No._

"Can you call her, see if she's okay?"

"Have you seen what time it is?"

He does have her number then. How long have they known each other for? A couple of hours, give or take? When had he even decided to ask for a thing like that?

"Did you see her last night? After work, did you see her?"

"I was with you, doing your _detention_." He sneers, and the memory of what happened yesterday comes back to Ste: the warning he'd given to Brendan about Carmel. _It's because you're you._ Brendan walking away from him, acting like he called the shots, having the last word. _Don't flatter yourself._

"But did you meet up with her later?"

"Why would I do that?"

"All that stuff you said about finding her... you know."

Brendan stares at him, waiting.

"You know. _Pretty_."

There's a flicker of a smile, and then the defenses go back up.

"Are you asking me if I went home with her?"

Ste splutters.

"No. Course not."

"Then what are you asking?"

What _is_ he asking?

"I just want to know if you saw her last night."

"I went home, Steven. Went to bed."

 _Alone?_ Ste has to resist asking, but it's like Brendan already knows. Alone, he says. Completely alone.

"Good. That's..." _That's good._ If Brendan had done anything then Ste would feel involved. He's the one who's meant to get rid of him, not be allowing him to hurt innocent people. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Nothing," Brendan says, but that's not what Ste asked; he didn't ask him what he was doing, he asked him _why_.

The rotter turns around, reaches for the door.

"Wait."

He stops at the sound of Ste's voice, back still to him.

"Please call her for me."

He's putting all his cards on the table, letting Brendan know that he's worried, that there's more going on here than just thinking that he's done something to Carmel. He's beyond caring. He has to know, has to find out if Danny's done something with the information he's given him.

"I'll be seeing her in a few hours."

"What? Why?"

"She's visiting me at lunch."

Still Ste can't see his face.

"Why?" He knows why, knows all the reasons why she would want to come. It had been clear to see yesterday that she liked him, that she'd wanted to be around him.

He's about to ask if it's for business or pleasure, but again it feels too obvious. Unnecessary.

"That's hours away."

"What's going to happen to her in a few hours?"

"Brendan -"

"See you later."

He's going, gone. Ste's still leaning against the sink when he realises he doesn't need to be; when he stands upright he can feel where it had been digging into his skin. It feels like it's left an imprint.

By the time his body catches up with his mind and he's out the door, Brendan's left. Ste scans the coffee shop, sure that it was only a few seconds that he was in the bathroom, unable to believe that anyone could be that fast, but he's nowhere. When Ste looks outside, left and right, the village is deserted. No Brendan.

Sometimes he seems more like a ghost than a rotter.

::::::

Hours he waits.

It goes past in a blur. He walks through the village, unable to settle in one place for more than ten, fifteen minutes at a time, the restlessness gnawing at him. Nothing that Brendan said has eased his mind, and it's added on something else on top of it all: guilt. Brendan had wanted to get away from him, had looked at him like there was something wrong in him.

They're at the park again today. Ste makes his way there, and when the group start arriving he looks out for Brendan, tries to second guess what the rotter will do, if his reactions will give away what's happened. Soon there's a cluster of people around him, all the faces he recognises, and it makes the one absence even more apparent.

Tony will want to start the register soon. Ste looks at the time on his phone; technically Brendan's not late, not yet, but he might as well be for the way Ste's scanning the park, eyes darting back and forth to the entrance.

Tony's saying something; Ste's distracted, tunes it out until he feels a hand on his arm.

He zones back in, hoping that it'll be like watching a kettle boil; that now that he's not watching the park entrance, Brendan will appear.

"How was last night?"

Ste must look blank, spaced out.

"Staying behind with Brendan," Tony says. "I was going to call you, see how it went, but I thought you'd think I was interfering or something. That I was saying you couldn't take care of things yourself."

"I wouldn't think that."

"Oh yeah, because you're never stubborn." He laughs, but makes an effort to keep his voice down, the way he always does when they're talking about Brendan with the other rotters close by. They're lucky they both have loud personalities in their groups, people to drown them out with their noise. "Was it alright though? Did he behave himself?"

"He was Brendan." It seems as good as any explanation to Ste, but apparently Tony wants more.

"What do you mean?"

It seems strange to Ste that he could know more about him than Tony does. That Tony's been running his group, and Ste's meant to have been keeping his distance - distance from anything personal in Brendan's life, anything that could make what he eventually has to do even more difficult - but he's still the one who knows Brendan more. Who knows more about what being Brendan means.

"He doesn't listen, does he? Everything you tell him to do, he does the opposite."

"Did he start something? Because if he did, you don't have to take it. We can tell Warren, get him to -"

"No," Ste says, so fast that Tony's still open mouthed, mid sentence. "No, you don't have to do that. I was just joking, wasn't I? I just mean - that's what he always does, isn't it?"

 _Is it?_ He can see that's what Tony's thinking. and the way he talks now is conspiratorial, hushed.

"You can say if this is too much. You do know that?"

"What do you mean, too much?" He can feel his anger bubbling to the surface. _Too much?_ Like he can't handle it, like he's a child. He can't keep up; one moment Tony's telling him that he needs to separate from him, that he needs to stand on his own two feet, and the next he's talking down to him, making him out to be fragile.

Tony looks around at their company, gives Ste a pointed look. They won't be talking about this, not now, and if Ste has any say in it then they won't be talking about it later either.

He's about to call Brendan. It's been long enough. If the rotter's trying to test him, trying to challenge him and see if he'll break, then he's already won. He doesn't have to go any further.

He's staring at the entrance of the park when the car pulls up. Or maybe he hears it first rather than sees it; the speed at which it's driving, the sound of the engine even when its come to a standstill. He recognises it straight away, even though it's mostly been dark when he's seen it before. He waits, expecting Brendan to get out, but there's nothing.

"What's he doing?" Ste says, and then he's breaking from the group, Tony calling his name to bring him back. Ste ignores him, charges ahead, shouting behind him, "He can't just do this. It's not our job to wait for him."

He's not just angry now. It's turned into something deeper, something that he can't fully put a name to. Brendan's made him worry, again. Brendan's made him think that something's happened, _again_. Ste's going through all the possibilities in his head, reasons why Brendan's not coming over to them, why he's stalled like this. By the time he reaches the car he's tempted to go back, to not have to face whatever this is. But he can't. He knows he can't.

He can see clearer through the windows now he's closer. He stops so suddenly that he almost loses his footing, his body in shock from the abrupt change in movement.

Brendan's not alone. He's with _her_.

He sees Ste looking - they both do, the pair of them, and if the car windows were rolled all the way down Ste could say it for sure then, say that it's a look of triumph he's seen in Brendan's eyes. With the tint of black it's ambiguous, and all he can do is stand and watch.

They're getting out of the car now. He tracks her with his eyes, and when her name echoes in his head - _Carmel McQueen_ \- it ends up sounding distorted. It doesn't make sense. Them, together, doesn't make sense.

Brendan's slower to move, almost casual with it. He leans against the car - slouches, even, like he's got no place to be - and that's not all. His shirt looks out of place. Not like at the end of a working day when it becomes untucked like it sometimes does, and flows freely. It looks crinkled around the corners, like it's been pulled. It hadn't been like that earlier in the bathroom. Ste would have remembered if it had.

"You're late," Ste says. He can see Carmel looking at him, smiling at him like she's trying to apologise for playing some part in it, but the relief he feels that she's still alive is being overtaken by something else. He's glad that she's safe, glad that Danny and Warren haven't got to her, but does she have to be here, now? Visiting him at lunch, Brendan had said. Not in the morning, not in the car with him. Not looking at him like this.

Tony's voice floats down towards him. He must be shouting if Ste can hear him from where he is.

"Actually Ste, we've still got five minutes."

He catches Brendan's smirk. He knows Ste doesn't have a leg to stand on. Ste could go on about turning up on time, following the rules - and he wants to, he really does - but it's all meaningless. Brendan's not doing anything wrong, not anything concrete that Ste could get him in trouble for.

It's infuriating.

He tries to stay polite when he talks to Carmel, but he's not sure it comes out like that.

"Haven't you got a job to go to?"

Okay, so maybe he's not quite mastered the art of being friendly.

Carmel seems oblivious either way; he almost wishes she would take offense.

"I thought I'd do a patrol of the park." She looks proud of herself, full of self importance. Does she really think it's useful what she's doing? Ste catches himself before he says something he shouldn't; something about how the community officers who used to trail him were all overpaid nuisances too. "Then I'm coming to meet Brendan for lunch." She catches Brendan's eye and her own shine.

Fuck this. He's never been able to stand being a gooseberry. He could never hack it with Amy, and he's not going to stay here and watch this play out now. It's _icky_ watching two people be like this.

"In your own time." He lets out a sigh - exaggerated - and waits for them to get the message.

They do - or Carmel does, eventually - but it takes her long enough. He was right. Not the brightest bulb in the box.

She apologises, calls him Steven. It rattles him.

"It's Ste." He looks at Brendan, knows that it's his doing. "Everyone's waiting." He looks back towards the group, sees them all staring and then looking away, pretending they haven't been trying to hear what's going on. Tony makes a small movement towards him, looks like he's ready to step in and intervene, and Ste quickly looks away again, hopes that it's enough to discourage him.

It happens quickly, only lasts a few seconds. Brendan's heading back when Carmel steps closer, kisses him on the cheek. Ste doesn't hear what they say after that. He looks at the bright red mark that Carmel's lipstick has left on Brendan's skin, and the way it stays there even when Brendan rubs it as he's walking away, back up to the group. It could look like blood against his starkly white complexion if it wasn't for the cover up mousse.

The sharpness of it fades as he presses it into his skin in an attempt to make it disappear, but the colour's still there, blotchy and bringing life to Brendan's cheek.

Ste fights against an instinct to brush it away; instead he keeps walking and pretends that he hasn't seen a thing.


	15. Chapter 15

She comes to visit Brendan every day after that.

Carmel McQueen, with her uniform - bright yellow, so Ste couldn't miss her even if he tried - and her helmet that he knows, just _knows_ that she loves wearing, that she sees as a symbol of her own importance. She thinks she's doing something good, something valuable here, marching around like she's protecting them all, not seeing the irony that she spends every lunchtime with a rotter.

She brings her own sandwiches even when Brendan offers to buy her lunch. He gets the drinks though - a beer for himself usually, and something non alcoholic for her. _I'm at work_ , she reminds him, the giggling already having started, but it doesn't stop Brendan from downing a pint. Ste really needs to talk to Warren about that, find out if he has any ground in enforcing a no drinking policy.

Slowly Ste's drip-fed information. It's not hard to find out; all he has to do is listen in to Jacqui and Rhys's conversations. Luckily for him they love to gossip, and being discreet isn't Jacqui's forte. It takes a week for him to find out the bare essentials: that Carmel was married, that her husband was killed by a rotter, her own cousin. It's so dramatic that Ste thinks they're having him on at first, that they know he's listening in and therefore they're inventing something fantastical in order to take the piss. But he's learnt himself that the truth can sometimes sound impossible, and he's seen enough to know that what they're talking about isn't outside the realms of reality.

He learns that Carmel believes in God, that she cites it as one of the reasons that's allowed her to forgive her cousin - now in a treated state, still living in the same house as her. He wonders if this is what made Brendan pick her apart from the others. Ste has seen the cross necklace that Brendan wears, and Carmel must have seen it too. Is that how they met, how they _bonded?_

A little over a year she's been single. _She's still fragile_ , is what Jacqui says. _Not ready to get into anything serious. She hasn't been with anyone since. Hasn't slept with anyone, hasn't kissed anyone. Nothing._

They're not subtle with who they direct this to. Ste hasn't seen Jacqui talk to Brendan about it, but he's seen her looking over every time he and her sister have lunch together, has seen the wariness there, the distrust. He doesn't blame her; he doesn't have a sister, but if he did then the thought of Brendan going anywhere near her makes him feel instinctively protective.

There are other things he hears too. The way Jacqui's struggling with getting enough money together. All the rotters complain about it - Ste hears them every single day, knows that it's in every conversation - but it's usually a harmless grumble, something that some of them seem to be saying for the sake of it. Not unlike what he's said to Amy about his own job in the past, that he's not making nearly enough.

It's different with Jacqui. From what Ste can understand it's her who bears most of the responsibility in the family, and he's guessing that Carmel's wages from her community officer work don't amount to much. Whenever she talks about it she can't put on the front that she usually does. There's an anxiety below the surface that's being pushed further and further to the forefront the more time goes on. All Ste can do is satisfy himself with the knowledge that she doesn't know - can't know - that it was because of him that she didn't get the job babysitting Leah and Lucas. Amy won't have told her that it was because he refused to let it happen. She wouldn't do something like that, wouldn't be that spiteful in turning someone potentially dangerous against him.

It's not allowed. He tells himself that he's only doing what he's been told. She couldn't still work here and take on another job. He's not doing anything wrong. He's thinking of the kids - he doesn't want a stranger with them, doesn't want someone like Jacqui who's made it clear that she doesn't like him, that she thinks he's a joke.

He knows what Amy would accuse him of. That he's being judgmental. Worse than judgmental; that he's discriminating against them. He can't tell her that she's not right, can't lie to her. He doesn't want a rotter looking after his children. Sarah, yes: she's Amy's sister, she's known the kids for years. But someone outside of the family? It's never going to happen. He's already given Jacqui a job, hasn't he? That should be enough.

She's not the McQueen he's worrying about anymore.

Carmel's here again today, turns up right on time. They've gone into town on Warren's instructions, and Ste can't help but think that there's a reason for it all, something other than a change of scene. He's spoken to Darren and a few of the others, and none of the other groups have been somewhere this public. It would attract unwanted attention, so they've repeated the same predictable pattern: The Dog, the park, the centre of the village. They haven't strayed anywhere this far, and it's already set the rotters on edge. They only calmed down when they saw the location, and it had been Ste's turn to panic. They're at the cinema, the same one he went to with Veronica, except this time it's for business instead of pleasure. Ste and Tony are overseeing it all as the rotters pick up litter once the films have finished, and help the staff clean the bathrooms.

The darkness of the cinema seems to settle them. They know their faces won't be as easily visible. They can hide in here.

They go to a nearby cafe for lunch, somewhere not too crowded so they won't be swarmed. The staff look like they'd serve the rotters for free they're so scared; it must be rare in these parts to see so many of them, as though they only venture out at night or stick to particular areas. Ste had only experienced that when he was younger and had been caught shoplifting. Suddenly there were no-go zones, but at least he knew he wouldn't be gawped at like they are now if he had gone there.

It's a standard greasy spoon, and they order accordingly: a full English for most of them, with sausages and bacon piling their plates, washed down with coffee. Brendan goes one extra, giving specific instructions to the staff. He's not hiding. He's not ashamed. Extra bacon for him. More toast - thickly buttered - and a strong coffee, _none of that watered down stuff_ , and some tissues if they wouldn't mind. He doesn't need to add that he's a messy eater; they've all witnessed it first hand. Most of his meals seem to end up on his moustache.

It takes Ste a moment to notice that Carmel's ordering with the rest of them. No sandwiches for her today; instead she gets the soup, just about the healthiest thing that's available at this place, and tea - _green tea_. Ste waits for Brendan to laugh at the request, as he's sure he will, but he doesn't react.

Ste's sat next to Malachy, a few seats down from Brendan and Carmel, whose chairs are wedged so tightly together that it's a surprise that either one of them can move at all. When Carmel excuses herself to go to the bathroom (to powder her nose, something which Ste thought no one ever said anymore, ever) he has to resist asking her if she's cut the cord at last.

He uses the opportunity to speak across the table. It feels safe to do so; the rotters are all talking amongst themselves, too busy to pay attention to him.

"No sandwiches then?"

Brendan's got egg on his moustache. He wipes it away with his tongue.

"What?"

"Carmel. No sandwiches?" He's trying to be patient but it's wearing thin. It's like it always is, where he's sure that Brendan knows exactly what he means but is being difficult on purpose.

"Thought I'd expand her horizon."

Ste was wrong about them not being overheard. Malachy chimes in, voice rising above them.

"You really know how to treat a woman, don't you?"

They both turn to look at him. A moment later Brendan resumes eating, as calmly as anything.

"Your time of the month, Malachy?"

Malachy laughs humorlessly, eating like he's doing it to distract himself from lashing out. Ste knows he should jump in, should keep the peace. They don't need a repeat of the confrontation in the park, and he does send them a warning of sorts, a _come on, stop it,_ but it's half hearted. He knows a part of him is enjoying this, not for the animosity of it all but for what he could find out if they continue. It's been clear from the start that Malachy doesn't like Brendan, and Ste wants to know why.

He keeps his professional head on, as reluctant as it is.

"You better finish that," he says, gesturing down to Malachy's plate. "Don't want it to go cold."

Malachy doesn't argue back, not against him. He carries on eating, but Ste knows he's still listening.

"You're paying, are you?" He goes on when Brendan doesn't answer. "Spoiling her?"

"If you call a greasy spoon _spoiling_ , then yeah." Brendan's voice is gruff, non committal. He doesn't want to be getting into this, but Ste doesn't let it drop.

"Like a date?"

He knows he's being intrusive. But Brendan following him home, threatening his kids, wasn't that intrusive? It's his turn now.

"A date's usually two people, no?" Brendan looks around the table to prove his point, looks back at Ste like he's stupid.

They're interrupted by Carmel coming back from the bathroom. She scrapes her chair back, smiles at Brendan when she sits down. She's applied a new layer of lipstick.

The way she looks at him, it might as well be just the two of them. It might as well be a date.

::::::

He knew it would happen, that eventually he'd have to go into the same cinema screen where he and Veronica had spent their first and last day together.

He thinks it'll be better with the lights on. It's not the same as it was, not the same as having the film playing - what they were watching, he can hardly even remember - and the faces are different. The rotters aren't the people who were in the room with them, and he reminds himself of that when he and Tony are supervising them, making sure that every aisle is cleaned.

It doesn't work, the things he's telling himself. The way he's trying to calm down. He doesn't know exactly where he was sitting; it's guesswork, all of it, but when he's standing further back he can remember the way he felt at the time, the anticipation and tension in every part of his body. The shock when she'd leant in to kiss him. The way she'd touched him through his jeans, and how long it had felt since anyone had touched him that way.

He's quiet as the rotters work. It wouldn't draw attention if he was usually like that, but Tony's known him long enough to see a change, and he's over to him before Ste has a chance to play pretend.

"You're still angry at me, aren't you?"

He doesn't know what he's talking about. All he can think about is what happened the last time he was here, how unexpected it had all been even though he'd planned it, even though it had been his choice to go on the dating site.

"For what I said about you and Brendan," Tony goes on, and Ste's head clears and he understands.

"That was weeks ago."

Tony's not entirely wrong - ordinarily he would have been angry with him for what he said, for thinking that he wasn't capable of handling the situation. But he's had more to think about since then, and it's rendered everything else meaningless.

"You've been off with me though."

"Have I?"

He hasn't meant to be. He thought he'd been the same, the same old Ste, but he can't have been convincing enough.

"All I meant was -" And then Tony stops, remembers where they are, who they're with. "Come on, let's go outside." He's already heading for the door.

"We can't leave." Ste stays rooted to the spot.

"The staff can take care of them for a few minutes."

There's two of them, a man and a woman, and it's true that they look more capable than some of the other people they've met along the way, but Ste still doesn't want to go.

He doesn't have a choice. Technically Tony's above him in the ranks, having worked at the Human Volunteer Force for longer. Ste follows him out of the room, the only consolation being that he knows they won't be away for long. Being there seems preferable to this, despite the memories it holds.

They head into the main foyer where they can be sure they won't be heard.

"I was worried," Tony says, and he looks it. It fills Ste with guilt and irritation; both of them fight against each other until he feels drained with it, scared to say something in case it does permanent damage.

"There's nothing to worry about. It's fine. It's going to be fine."

"Have you ever noticed how people use _fine_ for something which is the opposite?"

Ste shakes his head, looks back towards the doors that they've just gone through.

"They'll be okay," Tony says. "They're not going to do anything stupid."

"I know, I just..." _I just want to get away from here. I don't want to talk about this._

"Promise me something."

He hates this. He hates promising anyone anything. It immediately turns it into something he's sure he'll screw up, an impossible standard to live up to.

"I don't even know what it is yet."

"Promise me you won't spend any more time with Brendan."

Ste hears the laughter that bubbles up from his throat.

"I have to see him at work every day. I have to -" This is where he lowers his voice, where he leans in close so that no one will hear, even though there's no one around who would care. "I have to kill him, Tony. Did you forget about that? Because I didn't. It's in my head every day, what I have to do, when I'll have to do it. I'm just waiting for Warren to tell me, for him to give me his word, and then I..." He falters, picks the words back up and forces himself to say them. "Then I'm doing it. _Me_. I'm the one, no one else. So don't tell me not to see him any more, because I don't have a choice."

"See him, yes, but what you're doing now - all this involvement, it's -"

"What involvement?" He's getting fired up, agitated, feeling like he's being accused of something he hasn't done.

"All these questions about Carmel. Winding Brendan up."

"I'm not winding him up."

"You're trying to find out about his life. I get it, I do - all the other stuff, I understand why you have to do it. Working with him, and trying to make him fuck things up. But finding out about his girlfriend, asking him if they're on a date, it's -"

"You were listening?" That's not the point, he knows it's not. "Anyway she's not his girlfriend, is she?"

"Isn't she?"

"No."

"Then maybe he's just sleeping with her, but -"

"He's not," Ste says, but all he has to go by is what he overheard Jacqui say: _She's still fragile. She hasn't slept with anyone, hasn't kissed anyone._ Sisters tell each other things, don't they? Jacqui wasn't talking like someone whose sister had moved on in that way; she was talking like someone who wanted to protect her from all that. "He's not interested in her like that."

"He looks pretty interested in her to me."

"He's using her."

Tony looks baffled. He makes Ste feel crazy with the way he's looking at him, like he's said something wildly out of turn.

"What for?"

"I don't know yet. That's what I'm trying to find out."

"How is that going to help you?"

"Warren wants me to get dirt on him, doesn't he? He wants me to find something. This could be it."

"Mate, I don't think finding out that Brendan wants to get into a girl's knickers is anything revolutionary. He might be a rotter but he still has... needs."

"That's it though - he's _not_ trying to get into her knickers. You don't believe me, do you?" Tony says nothing. "I swear, I'm not making it up. And I'm not saying this because I'm stressed or going mad, before you start... Brendan's up to something, alright? It's not normal."

"Not normal to fancy someone, to want to sleep with them? Come on, Ste. Look at her. Wouldn't you go there if you could?"

He doesn't tell Tony about Veronica, doesn't mention that at first he'd thought Carmel was her.

"It's not about me though, is it? She's not what he wants."

"How do you know?"

"I just know. They don't go together, do they?"

Tony frowns at him. "How do you mean?"

"Brendan's a right miserable git, isn't he? He's always thinking he's better, always coming back with some kind of line. He thinks he's smart, _smarter_. He wouldn't waste his time on Carmel. She can't keep up, she looks like she doesn't know what he's on about half the time."

He's lost him, he can tell. Perhaps he was doomed to fail before he'd even begun. Tony was never going to be with him on this.

"You're going to see it. I promise you." Does it make him sound more or less like a lunatic trying to drive his point home? He's not sure, but he has to let him know. They'll all see that he's right. "It's okay. Really," he says, because he can't leave it like this. "I'm okay. You don't need to... you don't need to worry, alright? Everything's okay." He gives his best attempt at a smile before they head back into the room.

Tony was right - chaos hasn't broken out - and they sit down again. It would almost be as though nothing had happened if it wasn't for Tony's warning ringing in Ste's ears: _Promise me._

::::::

He's grown used to his weekly meetings with Danny and Warren, as much as someone can ever get used to be terrified. The sensation has become familiar now, and he's adapted himself, discovered ways to make it run as smoothly as possible.

He knows what makes Danny tick, or some of it at least. It's standard things: to never speak when he's not been spoken to, and to always answer the question, because a man like Danny doesn't like to be ignored. The information about Carmel and Brendan seemed to appease him for a week or two, and the intensity of the meetings had lessened until Ste had begun to think that his earlier fear had been for nothing. It wasn't _so_ bad. It wasn't worse than things he'd experienced before. He'd take these meetings for the rest of his life over living with Pauline and Terry.

He should have known that Danny wouldn't stay happy for long. Last week he'd switched again, and Ste had sensed his mood right away when he'd entered the basement. He'd been restless, in a rush, and everything Ste had said had managed to piss him off. No Brendan hadn't been acting strange. No he hadn't lashed out at anyone. No he hadn't been late again, or talked back, or done anything that could warrant him being punished. Ste had brought up the alcohol issue, and at first Warren and Danny had agreed to put a stop to it all, to see if the drinking ban would make him rebel in some way. But they'd changed their minds by the end of the meeting, had decided that if Brendan ever got drunk - unlikely in Ste's view, because the rotter always knew when to stop - then it would be more beneficial for them; Brendan might be more prone to be violent or to let something slip.

That was the problem with the pair of them; for all their talk they didn't seem to have much of a clue what to do or where they were going. If there was a plan then Ste couldn't see one, beyond their weekly ritual of pulling him aside and intimidating him. It seemed to be a sport, a game of who could spook Ste the most.

He walks down the steps of the basement, has to be careful because they feel like they'll give way beneath him. The bannister's covered in dust like it always is. Ste has a feeling that it's for effect rather than neglect on Warren's part; he's sure that he gets some sort of satisfaction from seeing Ste in these conditions. It's all part of the act. It wouldn't be quite so intimidating if he was in a brightly lit room, sat on the sofa sipping tea. All of this is deliberate, thought out even if their next step isn't.

He sits in his usual seat, is very, very still as he waits. He doesn't so much as cough or sniff when he's here.

There's no messing about today. Danny's straight to the point, no pacing or throwing his weight around just because he can.

"We want you to do something for us."

Ste sits up a little straighter. _This is it._ His body feels like it's tingling with the sudden realisation. This is when things change, when he's finally going to kill Brady. He's been waiting for it, both dreading it and wanting it to come, wanting things to be set in motion so he can finally get a new job, finally be free, but now that it's here he feels suddenly sick, not unlike how he felt when Brendan had found him in the bathroom, about to retch his guts out over the toilet.

He can't afford to be like that, not here.

He watches as Danny pulls something out of his pocket, hands it to him. It's a flyer for a club night, that much he can tell, but soon the words start swimming on the page and Ste loses his focus. He doesn't like it, doesn't like having to read something in front of people, even if it's just in his head.

"What do you want me to do?" He thinks it's safe to ask that; even if he could understand everything on the page he's still not sure that he'd know what they want from him.

"I want you to go."

Danny's asking him to go _clubbing?_

"I don't get it."

"You never do." He snatches the flyer back up, destroys it in his hand as though it's what he wants to do to Ste. He tosses it on the floor. "Pick it up."

"What?"

"Danny," Warren says, and even he's looking uncomfortable here, like he's not quite sure what's going on.

"Pick it up," Danny repeats, accentuating every word until it sounds like even more of a command, something that Ste has no say in.

Ste does as he's told, picking up the paper and returning to his seat. He takes some pride in the fact that his cheeks haven't turned red, but it takes a conscious effort to stay as he is, to not lose control. Just because this is humiliating doesn't mean that he needs to be humiliated.

"Tomorrow night. It's at the club in the village, The Loft."

Ste had been there a couple of times years ago, before he'd been kicked out for drinking too much. He doesn't let slip that little detail to Warren and Danny.

"What am I meant to do there? Have a dance?"

"You're meant to be normal, if you can manage it. Try and mingle." Something about Danny using the word _mingle_ makes Ste want to laugh. In other circumstances, he would. "Order a few drinks, try to blend in."

"Leave my uniform at home you mean?"

"Stop being a sarcastic little prick."

Ste shuts up after that.

"Keep an eye on Brady. Don't make it too obvious, but where he goes you follow."

"Brendan's going to be there?"

"Why do you think we're asking you?" Warren says, sounding exasperated, and he looks pointedly at Danny then back to Ste again, a warning. _Look who you're talking to. Don't make this even worse for yourself._

"How am I meant to not make that obvious? Don't you think he's going to notice me following him everywhere?"

"You'll find a way."

He's not sure that it's confidence that Danny has in him; more an unwillingness to allow Ste to fuck things up in any way.

"How do you know he's going?" He can't imagine Brendan in a place like that. Being the boss maybe - Ste can imagine him calling the shots, being a manager of sorts in another life, but he can't correlate the Brendan he knows with someone who would choose to go clubbing for fun.

"Because Carmel will be there."

"Carmel?" His head rushes. He knew, he fucking _knew_ that it would all lead back here somehow. That what he told both of them wouldn't simply be buried. "How do you know she'll be there?"

He's asked too many questions. It's come to the part of the meeting where Danny's had enough of him. He comes to him, makes him stand up, fingers digging into Ste's shoulders, and forces the flyer into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. He doesn't need to tell Warren to remove him from the room - they're so used to reading each other now that he already knows, and Ste's marched back upstairs again, his head so full of what he has to do that he doesn't protest against the way he's being manhandled and shown the front door before he can ask anything else.

He takes out the flyer when he's waiting at the bus stop, tries to make sense of it all. He doesn't know what he's meant to be looking for tomorrow night, what he's meant to be reporting back.

He realises that his attempts at not being a third wheel were in vain; tomorrow he'll be gatecrashing a date whether he likes it or not.

::::::

The lying doesn't seem to stop.

He tells himself that it's necessary, that he has no other choice. He can't tell Amy the truth about what Warren and Danny have asked him to do, and the alternative - telling her that he's going clubbing - won't wash either; he can foresee her reaction now, the way she'll think he's having her on. And then the questions will start: who is he going with? Why is he suddenly going out for the night, to a club of all places? Even before Lucas was born his idea of a night out was going down the park with a couple of cans of cider. Amy's not stupid.

He can't say he's going on patrol, not unless he wears his uniform, and that'll go against trying to _mingle_ and _blend in._ He goes with something simple in the end, tells her that he has a meeting with the HVF, that it might be a long one.

She wants to know if he'll be back in time to read the kids a story.

He kisses the top of her head.

"That's a no then."

"Amy..."

He hates this. He hates that he's having to leave them, that he's having to fabricate more stories. It shouldn't feel this difficult. He's already told a lie that's worse than this to her, but even the little ones feel like they're stacking up, a tally of his failings and deceit. He wonders if this is what people feel like when they're having an affair; the constant guilt, the way she looks when he leaves her at the end of the night to sneak away and do something which she knows nothing about.

It'll be worth it when this is all over. That's what makes him walk out of the door and keep the story going. That's what makes him give himself permission to do this to her.

He texts her when he's out of the flat, even though he's still within reach of her. It takes him a while to settle on something. Everything he writes feels too like an attempt to stay in her good books, and everything else sounds too detached, like he's turned into what he feels he is; a dad leaving his family. _Love you_ is what he ends up with, and he imagines the moment later tonight when he'll be back with them. All of this will seem like a distant memory, no more than a task which he has to get through.

It's his job, not his life. He forces himself to remember that.

He's dressed down so he wouldn't make Amy suspicious. He's wearing a pair of jeans and a polo neck, and the whitest trainers he owns, the ones that don't look like they've spent years being congealed in mud. He doesn't know much about club etiquette, but he hopes it's the kind of thing that'll get him through the front door. He looks ordinary, he thinks, and ordinary's good. The whole purpose of him being there is to be like everyone else, to be able to listen in to conversations without anyone noticing him.

He's still early. He hadn't wanted to risk being too late to see Carmel and Brendan, and that's if they come at all. Ste can't help but feel like the entire night will be a sham. He wouldn't even be shocked if Warren and Danny jumped out from the bushes and shouted surprise, having been in on the whole thing from the start. The lack of instructions has put him on edge; when he'd called Warren earlier all he'd said was to be there on time and keep his head down. Then he'd gone - he was busy at the treatment centre apparently, too busy for him - and the line had gone dead.

Ste longs for the day when he can put the phone down on him.

Security's tight. News must have spread around about the drug incident with the rotter weeks ago; when Ste queues up outside the club he watches as people are searched. Some of them argue, _it's against our rights_ , and with a few of them it turns into blame: _why should we be punished for something they've done?_ The security men have no time for it. Anyone who doesn't comply is sent away.

He doesn't like it, the look they give him when it's his turn to be frisked. He knows what they're thinking, how he comes across. He's one of their suspects, he can tell. He almost says something stupid - _Do you know who I am? -_ and he wishes that he had been been able to wear his uniform so he could prove to them that he's the last person who'd do something like that.

He bites his tongue, looks away from the men as they go through his pockets, pat down his clothes. They must know that it's useless - he could have swallowed a packet of pills and be heading straight for the toilets, or be hiding them in his shoes. But he's sure he's not imagining the pleasure they take from this show of power, from the ability they have to make him feel uncomfortable.

There's a nod of their heads and he's allowed inside. He hears the music before he's entered the building, and then it's like an onslaught of his senses. He's not used to this. He's become accustomed to nights on patrol or at home with Amy and the kids. Not this. Not going to a club, not the music so loud that it feels like his skin's buzzing from it, like his entire body's vibrating.

There's also the undeniable fact that he's the only person who seems to be alone. He isn't sure how he's meant to be one of the crowd when he stands out in his isolation. He makes his way through groups of people to get to the bar, hoping that if they look at him they'll see someone getting a drink for his friends; someone getting a drink for his girlfriend.

From where he's sitting he can see people as they come in. He recognises some faces - not people he knows, not on a personal level, but people he's seen out and about in the village. They've gone all out, dresses and skirts and high heels and fake tan. It's not hard to imagine Carmel on Brendan's arm here. She'd fit in.

He orders a beer, drinks it slowly. He has to stay focused, but he also needs something to take the edge off. He feels unsettled, and when he catches sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar he looks like a bag of nerves.

Half an hour he waits. He starts to worry that he's missed them, that they've come straight through the door when he's been looking away. He gets out of his seat, does a quick scan of the room to make sure, but he can't spot them. Warren and Danny will never forgive him if they've walked right past him.

Half an hour turns into an hour. He's restless, orders another beer just for something to do. A girl approaches the bar, looks at him, smiles, but he's so concentrated on making sure that his eyes are on the door that he ends up turning his back on her, and by the time he turns around again she's gone.

Probably for the best. He doesn't need the added complication.

He gets his phone out, is about to call Warren when he sees them. The floor's so packed that they're pressed together, arms touching, and then Brendan's guiding her through the crowd, hand on the small of her back.

Ste's instinct is to stand up, to go over to them. He's earned it after waiting for them all this time, and all he wants is to find out what's going on, why he needs to be here. Instead he thinks of what Danny would do to him if he did, and he stays where he is; keeps looking over to them and hopes against hope that they don't spot him.

He quickly realises he should have chosen a different place to be. They're heading for the bar, and Ste has two choices: either risk staying here and try to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible so they don't notice him, or chance it and make a run for it now, hoping that the busyness of the club will act as a sort of camouflage.

He chooses the second option, jolting out of his seat, heading into the throng of people. Most of them are dancing and he tries to imitate them - he's guessing that standing stock still in the middle of the floor will only draw attention to himself - but it feels strongly like it could backfire; he gets a few odd glances from a group who clearly aren't taking to the idea of him joining them out of the blue.

He moves on, sneaks past them and inches his way to the far corner of the room, far enough away from the bar that he feels safer, not so far that he'll lose sight of Brendan and Carmel. He was right, she _does_ fit in - he can see the way the men in here are looking at her. Even the barman seems to do a double take before asking for her order. Ste watches as Brendan pays for them both and then leans over and whispers in her ear. She creases up laughing, smacks him on the arm like he's said something he shouldn't have.

Ste's already preparing the text he's going to send to Warren: _I didn't come here to watch a first date._ He saves it in his drafts.

He could leave now, make up some story about how he stayed the whole night but saw nothing; he's sure it's not far from the truth of what would happen. But he doesn't know how far Danny would go, doesn't know if he's hired someone to tail him, make sure that he stays until Brendan and Carmel leave.

The beat of the music matches the beat of his heart. He deletes the message in his drafts and prepares himself for a long night ahead.


	16. Chapter 16

Two hours he's been here now, in this club that serves overpriced drinks and plays songs that he remembers listening to years back. He almost feels like he's been transported to that time, when he didn't have to worry about when he came home because no one cared enough to ask. A song comes on and he remembers where he was when he first heard it, can remember Justin playing it for him. He thought he'd forgotten all that, like something out of a distant dream, and it takes a moment for him to shake himself out of it and remember where he is, what he has to do.

He's surprised he's still here at all, that he hasn't sacked the whole thing off and gone home. He's watched as Brendan and Carmel have talked, and at one point it looked like she was trying to coax him to dance - Ste had seen her attempting to lead him into the crowd, until it had become clear that there was no way he was going to do that. He hasn't been able to get close enough to hear what they're saying. He hasn't wanted to risk it; there have been a few times when Brendan's looked around the room and Ste's hardly dared to breathe, but his eyes haven't once flickered towards him. He feels protected here in the corner of the club, as though he's able to kid himself that there's a glass wall that divides him and Brendan, and only he can see through it.

Ste had expected Brendan to dress up for tonight, but he doesn't look all that different from how he looks every other day. There's still the suit and the shoes which look as if they're new. Admittedly there's a change of shirt, a blue one that seems too tight like all the others, but it doesn't look smarter than the rest. Just _different_. He doesn't look like he's here for a date, not like Carmel does with her jewellery and make up and short skirt, and perfume that Ste's sure he can smell from where he's standing. It can't be just him who sees the imbalance there, the way they're together but they're not.

They don't match. He doesn't know why he's so certain of it, but as soon as the thought enters his head it becomes impossible not to notice it every time he looks at them. And looking at them is what he's been doing all night, what he'll be doing until they go. He tries to think who he could imagine Brendan with. Is it because she's blonde? No, that's not it; when he visualises Brendan with a brunette that doesn't seem to work either. Is it because of how gullible she is, how she'll easily fall for any attempts to wind her up because she doesn't know any better? But Ste's not sure it's that either - he can imagine Brendan being irritated with someone who would act superior, a bookish type whose mind would be like a fact file.

He just knows this isn't it. Carmel McQueen, it's not her. It's not _right_.

He's so wrapped up in making sure that he watches them that he doesn't notice that he's being watched himself. It takes fingers being clicked in front of him to snap him out of it, and then the sound of laughter; a group of lads have approached him. Ste can already tell that they're drunk, and they don't try to hush their jokes at his expense. He gets to know exactly what they think of him - that he's weird, a _creep_. He considers telling them to do one, but he knows he can't draw more attention to himself. He moves away from them, is forced to get closer to the dance floor and the bar, but by then it's too late. It's only been a few seconds but it's enough for him to have lost Brendan and Carmel.

He wants to deck one of the lads for distracting him. He scours the club, sure that they can't have gone far in that short amount of time, but the rush and the noise and the music makes Ste frantic, and he feels like he's going around in circles as his eyes scan from left to right.

Danny will kill him if he's lost them already.

He could cry out in relief when he spots Carmel amongst the crowd. She's heading for the upstairs section of the club, but she's alone now.

Ste doesn't know what to do - follow her up there, or try and find Brendan. His decision's made for him when he's pushed backwards by a group trying to get past him to the bar. He's closer to the bathroom now, and he figures it's worth a try.

It's busier than he'd thought. He's surprised by the amount of guys in here preening; if he wanted any mirror space then it would be impossible. It acts as a distraction though, shifting their attention away from whatever he's doing, and he uses it to his advantage, looks under each cubicle that's locked to see if he recognises Brendan's shoes. He's not unaware of how ridiculous it is that it's come to this stage.

He's not here. Ste's already wasted time, and it's a rush to get out of the bathroom again and make his way to Carmel. It's difficult to get upstairs; there's a girl sitting there with her head in her hands, her friend trying to get her up again. He swerves passed them, sees that this floor is just as packed as downstairs. He's starting to remember why he avoids these places.

He sees her - sees _them_ \- and it's like Brendan's been there the whole time, sitting with her on one of the leather sofas in the corner. They have drinks, but Ste's sure he didn't see Brendan getting them at the bar. He has to stop himself from walking over to them right now and demanding to know where Brendan had gone.

He has to believe that waiting will pay off, that this entire night won't be for nothing.

::::::

He spends all night in the shadows - difficult in a club like this, where the lights strobe over him like everything in this place is designed to make him get caught. He sticks to his one drink, uses it more as an excuse to keep him here than anything else. He's not sure that they'd be allowed to throw him out just for doing nothing, but he knows he must look odd, his eyes fixed on Brendan and Carmel the whole time, not dancing or talking to anyone.

It's all so _ordinary_. They drink, they talk, they laugh - so loudly that Ste feels like people living in other continents can hear - and the most interesting thing that happens all night is when Carmel almost spills her drink on Brendan's lap.

He doesn't get paid nearly enough for this shit.

Then finally, _finally_ , something changes. Carmel puts on the jacket that she's hung over her chair, and then both of them are standing up.

It's over. Ste knows he should feel annoyed that nothing's happened, that he'll have nothing to report back to Danny and Warren, but he's just glad it's finished, that he can go home and get some sleep.

He follows them as they make their way out of the club, does it more for the sake of it than because he's expecting anything to happen. He gets tangled in the crowd, nearly trips over on a girl's dress - _do dresses have to be that long?_ \- and by the time he's out in the open air (beer in his hand, because he's sure as hell going to get his money's worth), he's lost them.

You win some, you lose some. It's not a big deal. Chances are all he would have seen is Brendan walking her home and giving her a kiss goodnight, and Ste's not at all put out at being spared the sight of that.

He starts walking down the alleyway that's right outside The Loft, a shortcut home. His shirt's been sticking to him all night, the heat of the club and his own nerves getting to him, and he's not feeling any less strung out now. It doesn't feel done. The night had run smoothly. _Too_ smoothly. Something in him feels unsettled.

He's made it less than halfway down the alleyway before a hand's clamped around his mouth and the air's knocked out of him, his body being dragged backwards. Another hand's around his stomach, and he's too shocked to scream; even if he tried he wouldn't be heard.

He's spun around, released, and the surprise at suddenly being free doesn't compare to the surprise that he feels when he sees who's in front of him.

"Brendan?"

He's gasping more than speaking.

"Where's Carmel? What have you done to her?" Ste looks behind Brendan, but he already knows she's not there. Brendan would never try anything like this if she was.

"Why? What do you think I did?" He's keeping his distance now, but Ste knows he'd be in his face the minute he'd make an attempt to get away. "Killed her?"

"Wouldn't put it past you." Then he realises his mistake: he isn't supposed to know. He isn't supposed to know anything.

Brendan smiles, knows that Ste's figured it out.

"She's in a cab home. Didn't want to walk in those heels of hers." He rolls his eyes lightly. "Women, eh?"

"How do I know if you're telling the truth?"

"You must know a lot about me now, don't you? You didn't leave me alone the whole night."

"You knew I was watching you?" _Fuck_. He has to fight the urge to run, to go over the evening in his mind until it becomes a form of torture: when exactly Brendan had seen him, and how he'd given himself away.

Unless he's bluffing. Playing with him, trying to make him think he knows more than he does.

Ste tries to backtrack.

"You can't have. I only just got here. I'm not here for you."

He thinks it's working, this show of his that says that he thinks he's too good for Brendan, too good to waste his time following his every move.

"Partying on a school night?" Brendan's eyes are on his drink.

"It's my choice. No one can tell me what to do." It's the wrong choice of words; he's all too aware that he sounds like a petulant teenager trying to convince an authority figure that he's all grown up.

"I'll get you a drink then."

"No," Ste says, cutting in sharply. "You don't have to do that." He can't allow himself to get drunk. Brendan doesn't know that he's only been sipping at his drink, but he'll notice if he doesn't touch another one.

"You think I'm going to spit in it?"

"I was thinking poison."

"Funny guy."

"Who says I'm joking?"

"I'm not going to poison you, Steven." It's impossible to tell with Brendan whether he means it or not. "You owe it to me, don't you? After being a _spy_."

"You make it sound like..."

"Like you were following me around, watching me? Like you were tracking my every move?"

It sounds disturbing, wrong. It makes Ste feel uncomfortable, the way he's making it seem. He hadn't thought about it in those terms before. The way he'd seen it, it had been Brendan putting him out. Brendan who had been the inconvenience, who was forcing him to be there.

He doesn't say all that. It's easier to snap back at him.

"Not your every move. You're not that interesting."

Brendan doesn't rise to it.

"Come back inside. Let me get you a drink."

"No. I've got to be heading back." He can't be seen here, can't be seen with him.

"I don't think you heard me."

Ste's about to tell him that he heard him just fine, _thank you very much_ , but he's cut off, Brendan invading his personal space. How does he do that? How does he get so close so easily, so completely at ease with making Ste feel like he can't breathe?

It's like in his nightmares, where he's backed against a wall and has nowhere to escape to.

"You're coming inside."

::::::

A drink's put in front of him. A beer, and the top's screwed tightly - no signs of tampering as far as Ste can see, but he's not taking anything for granted. He inspects it through the glass, tries to hold it up against the light.

"Seriously?" Brendan stares at him disbelievingly.

"You could have done something to it."

"Wouldn't be much use to me then, would you?"

It sounds ominous, or maybe it's just Ste's paranoia.

They're both standing. Ste had drawn the line at getting a table; he had to know that he could leave quickly if he saw someone he recognised. And it had seemed too civil, too _normal_ , the idea of him and Brendan sitting down for drinks like they were a couple of mates getting together.

Not that this feels any more normal, what they're doing now.

Brendan's ordered a cocktail, one with those umbrellas (bright yellow), and he slurps it noisily, entirely unashamed. The pretense doesn't fool Ste. He knows they're not here to drink.

It doesn't take long for Brendan to get straight to the point.

"What were you hoping to see?"

Ste frowns.

"Tonight. You were here to see something." Brendan's short with him, as though this should all be obvious. "What was it?"

Ste's about to go in with the same line from earlier - he wasn't here for him, he wasn't even aware that Brendan would be here - but he's beaten to it.

"Don't give me all that spontaneous bullshit. There was nothing spontaneous about this. You knew I'd be here."

Ste knows there's no evidence to prove that. It's all guesswork, but something tells him that nothing he says will make Brendan change his mind about this.

He doesn't go for the whole truth, but a version of it.

"I was worried about Carmel."

Brendan's hand tightens around his glass.

"You're awfully worried about someone you don't even know."

"Whatever you're planning, she doesn't deserve it."

"How do you know? She could be a bitch." It sounds more menacing coming from Brendan. Ste's never heard him talk about a woman like that before.

"She doesn't deserve it," is all he can repeat, taking a gulp of his beer to distract himself. He can see Brendan's eyes on him - or _feel_ them, rather - and he's as self conscious as he always is under his gaze. He can feel himself squirming. Maybe he should have sat down.

"Regular knight in shining armour, aren't you?" He doesn't say it like it's a good thing. "Sticking around the whole night, just to check up on her."

"I told you, I was worried."

"You haven't really told me much though, have you?"

The music's loud and Brendan isn't shouting, but Ste can hear every word as clearly as though it's being whispered into his ear.

"Does Amy know you're here?"

He doesn't like this line of questioning. It feels like an intrusion.

"Yes."

Brendan knows he's lying. He nods, unconvinced, smiling as he sucks on his straw.

"She must be a saint. My missus would have flipped, two kids at home and me going out at all hours, following around a mystery blonde."

He makes it sound like a headline in a newspaper, something surrounded by flashing lights. _Seedy_.

Ste gets back at him the best way he knows how.

"She was okay with you leaving her though, was she?"

He's rattled him. He leans against the wall like he needs it to steady him.

"That's what you're doing, isn't it?" Ste can't help it; it's a weak spot and it's all too easy to take advantage of. "Two kids back in Ireland. Eileen sitting at home while you follow around Carmel."

He's sure the only thing that's stopping Brendan from attacking him is being surrounded by a club full of people. He can see him considering it though, weighing up the possibilities, trying to work out what he could get away with doing to him that wouldn't attract too much attention.

"You haven't finished your drink."

"What?" It's not the comeback Ste was expecting.

"Your drink. Drink your drink, Steven." His voice is a warning.

He drinks enough to make Brendan satisfied, and then he's on his own, watching as Brendan takes both their glasses back to the bar. Ste thinks for one precarious moment that he's off the hook, that this is his permission to leave, but then Brendan's leaning over to speak to the bartender, and then he's coming over with more drinks.

"I'm not having that."

It's not a beer this time, it's one of the cocktails that Brendan had ordered earlier. The fact that it's not sealed makes Ste uneasy, and it's like Brendan knows what he's thinking; he takes the drink he's handed to him, starts sipping at it through the straw. When he's finished he licks the edges of his mouth and gives Ste his drink back.

"Satisfied?"

"You only had a little bit." Ste stares at the glass, inspecting it like he'd done with the beer. "You could have put something at the bottom."

"Like what?"

"Like... I don't know..." He feels defeated, but then he's animated again when he starts talking. "Maybe it doesn't work on you, if you put something in it. Because you're a... you know... maybe it doesn't effect you."

He likes this argument - or he thought he did - but Brendan's staring at him like he's out of his mind.

"I'm not an alien, Steven. My body's not all that different to yours." His eyes track him slowly. "Apart from the obvious." Ste's about to ask him what the obvious is, not sure whether he's meant to be offended or not, but Brendan doesn't give him the chance. "And I haven't got some kind of superpower, before you go on." He's not trying to hide the fact that he's mocking him.

"What am I meant to think? You're..." Ste points to him, doesn't know how to explain.

"What?"

"You're not like everyone else, are you? So how am I meant to know what you're able to do?"

"Want me to go through a list? I can't fly. I can't spin webs. I can't turn invisible. I don't have x-ray vision."

"Very funny."

"I can read people's minds though."

Ste looks at him, watches as Brendan stares at him closely like he's doing it right now, seeing into his mind and having access to his thoughts. He doesn't blink.

"Brendan, don't!" Ste shoves his shoulder, tries to break the spell. He's fucking with him. He's got to be. Still Ste feels heat flush to his cheeks, makes every attempt to clear his mind of anything incriminating, but it has the opposite effect: all he can think about is Danny Houston and what he knows he has to do.

Brendan must be taking the piss; if he knew what Ste was thinking then he wouldn't still be in one piece right now.

"You believed me," Brendan says, and there's a smug satisfaction there.

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No I..." He sighs. Arguing his case here is pointless. "Can I go now?"

"You haven't finished your drink."

"If I do then will you let me leave?' Somehow he doesn't think the answer to this is as simple as a _yes_. There'll be conditions, he's sure of it.

"You're free to leave anytime you want."

"Yeah right."

"Who's stopping you?"

Ste waits. It's a tempting thought, going home now, pretending that this entire night hasn't been a waste of time. He knows he'll have to face Danny and Warren's questions, but for the moment it feels like something that doesn't reach him. Brendan's words repeat themselves in his head. _He's free. Free to leave._

He's about to put his drink - still full - down on the nearest table and get the hell out of the club, but he's stopped in his tracks.

"I was going to give Carmel a call anyway."

Brendan polishes off his own drink and brushes down his suit, standing so tall that it feels again to Ste like he's towering over him, although he knows Brendan's not all that much taller than he is.

"Carmel?" He isn't sure he's going to be heard at first, the music so loud that he feels like he's swaying involuntarily, like the very floor itself is shaking with the beat of it.

"She said to call her."

Brendan gets out his phone, and Ste can't see what he's doing but he's sure he's seconds away from speaking to Carmel.

"She'll be at home now, won't she. She won't want to come back here again."

No answer. Is Brendan even listening?

"You'll probably just wake her up."

 _Don't_ is what he wants to say. _Don't call her._

Brendan says something, quiet and almost drowned out entirely, but Ste can roughly make it out.

 _Maybe I'll join her._

Brendan looks at him like he's only just noticed him, like he's wondering what he's still doing here.

"Waiting for something?"

"I'll have another drink."

"I thought you were going?"

"Changed my mind, didn't I."

Brendan looks down at Ste's glass.

"You don't need another drink."

Ste forgets about the straw, downing his cocktail until there's nothing left. He tries not to think about what Warren would say if he knew what he'd done: drinking from the same glass as a rotter, risking an infection that Warren's so sure could pass between them.

"Here you are. Ta." He hands his glass back over, wets his lips.

Brendan stares at him in amusement.

"What?"

"You're staying then?"

Ste shrugs. "Looks like it, doesn't it."

Brendan looks like he's considering. Ste knows he could just as easily leave as he could stay, and why wouldn't he when Carmel's the alternative?

"Same again then?"

On the outside Ste doesn't react, but inside the relief of it all is like a spark running through him, igniting him. He nods, can feel the effects of the drinks he's already had, but it's a surefire way of keeping Brendan here, and he's not going to jeopardise that. One more won't hurt - maybe it'll even help him. He's here to find out information, and if he can convince Brendan to relax, to loosen his tongue, to trust him, then he won't leave here tonight with nothing.

They still don't sit down. It still seems a step too far, something that's too planned. It's sheltered in the corner where they stand though, distanced from the rest of the club, enough for Ste to feel separate from everyone else when Brendan goes to get them their drinks. Alone is what he feels, but it disappears when Brendan comes back, and everything else - the crowds, the noise, the intensity - all vanishes into the background.

He's getting used to this, to the sweetness of the cocktail. It's definitely going to his head. He always has been a lightweight, much as he loathes to admit it, much as he denies it to anyone who calls him one. He's getting that feeling, that slight dizziness, the sense that the room's out of focus. The people seem to be spinning more than dancing. Or maybe it's him; maybe it's him who's spinning.

The lights ghost across Brendan's face.

"It's alright here, isn't it?" Ste says. He doesn't know why he feels the need to make small talk, but it's not natural, standing here and not saying anything the whole time.

"It's badly managed." Brendan regards the place. He has a knack of looking at something like he's better than it - more important, more influential - and it's the same here with the club. It makes Ste look at it with new eyes too.

"How do you mean?"

"Took me longer than it should to order drinks."

"You were only gone for like two minutes."

"People who arrived later were being served before me."

Ste's about to say that maybe it's because they're not rotters, but he stops himself at the last minute.

"That happens everywhere though, doesn't it?"

"Does it? Look at this." He holds up his glass, angles it towards Ste.

Ste doesn't know what he's meant to be looking at.

"Lipstick," Brendan says, pointing to the ring of pink around the glass. "Fucking lipstick."

Ste looks down at his own glass, inspects it. Sure enough he finds something - it's faint, but unmistakably red, the same shade that he'll see Amy wear sometimes on a rare night out. He scrunches up his face.

"That's nasty, that."

"Amateurs."

"And you could do it better, could you?" He's seen Brendan at work. Or _not_ at work, to be more accurate.

Brendan shrugs. "I've been to a fair few places in my time. There was a place in Ireland where I used to..." He cuts himself off. "Anyway. I started going to clubs before you were even old enough to get in."

"I'm not that young."

He isn't even aware that he's tutted until Brendan calls him out on it.

"How old were you anyway? Thirty five? Forty?"

The jibe has the desired effect. Ste doesn't miss the way Brendan narrows his eyes at him.

He changes the subject before he can take it too far, before he can accuse Brendan of lying: he may have _been places_ , but he struggles to see Brendan as the clubbing type, no matter what he says.

"I think I'd be good at working in a club, me."

"You?"

"Yeah, why not? I'm good with people, aren't I?"

"You?"

"Stop saying that! I'm not bad." He sips his drink, thinks it over. "Well I'm not _that_ bad, anyway."

"Sure, Steven."

Ste squares his shoulders. "Is it because you know about..." He can't bring himself to say the word. "You know, my... The fact that I can't..."

He's relieved when Brendan understands what he's getting at.

"It has nothing to do with that."

"Because I told you, it doesn't mean I'm stupid. Okay?"

"I said -"

"And you better not have told anyone." Ste looks at him, waits for a reaction. "You haven't, have you?"

"I told you."

"Tell me again."

Brendan doesn't look away when he answers him.

"I'm not going to tell anyone. Ever."

Ste nods, satisfied.

"You don't need to be, like, book smart to work behind a bar, do you?"

Brendan shakes his head.

"They don't care about how you did at school, do they?" He bloody hopes not, otherwise he wouldn't even be able to get his foot in the door.

"Don't care, no."

"Good."

"Why, you thinking of having a change of career?" Brendan says, and he's messing with him, Ste can tell by the casualness of his tone, but still it makes Ste uneasy. He's careful to rein in his response, but the effort to be calm and ordinary makes him feel the opposite. He's worried that it shows.

He laughs - scoffs - like it couldn't be further from his mind.

"I'm in the Human Volunteer Force," he says pointedly.

"Thanks for the memo, I hadn't known."

"You know what I mean. I can't just leave, can I?" It's not far from the truth - he couldn't, not if it wasn't for this deal he's made.

"Why not?" Brendan's leaning against the wall, mock casual, but he looks alert, poised. "What do they do to people who try to leave?"

Again Ste laughs. He's grateful that Brendan doesn't know the difference between his real laugh and this forced, disingenuous one; he hasn't seen him happy enough to tell them apart.

"You make it sound like something dodgy."

"Do I? Funny, that."

The music's pounding in Ste's head, hammering against his skull. He's sure it wasn't this intense before. He's had too much to drink already. He knows he should take it easy, slow down, but it takes the edge off the reality of what he's doing here, the corner that he's backed himself into.

"Warren's alright once you get to know him. He's decent."

It's the opposite of the truth, that Warren seems alright _before_ you get to know him.

"Seems like a real gent. Salt of the earth."

"You're one to talk."

"I don't do what he does." He says it emphatically, like it's important that Ste believes him.

"I don't really want to think about what you've done."

They're both quiet, neither of them knowing what to say next.

"I can imagine you working in a club," Ste says, because for some reason he feels the need to redeem himself; why he doesn't have a fucking clue - he was justified in what he said, knows he was. "Running the place, I mean."

"Yeah?" Brendan sounds surprised, treading softly like he's not quite sure if this is a trap.

"Mm. You'd fit, I reckon." Even as he says it he can picture it, just as he had when Danny had first told him about tonight: Brendan being in charge of people, giving orders, acting like the place is his own personal empire.

"How do you mean I'd _fit_?"

"Just can't imagine you being a follower, that's all. Doing what everyone else does... working in the city or something, or having a boss. "

"I follow you and your lackies, don't I?" He's practically spitting the words.

"Yeah, and look how much you love that." Ste can't help but laugh, can even see the corners of Brendan's mouth flickering upwards. "Besides, it's not like you actually listen to me half the time, is it? Or Tony."

"Point. What's the deal with that?"

"With what?" Ste's nearly at the end of his drink, doesn't know how that happened.

"You and Antony."

"Who?"

"Antony." Brendan says it louder, like Ste didn't hear it the first time.

The penny drops.

"Oh, Tony. There's no deal. What are you even on about?"

"You two seem..." He shrugs his shoulders, leaves Ste to fill in the blanks.

"What?"

"Close. Closer than you and the rest of them."

He remembers back to Brendan's _surrogate daddy_ comments.

"That's not true." He doesn't know why he feels the need to deny it. Maybe it's because Tony's been blowing hot and cold with him, abandoning him one minute, telling him he's going to be there for him the next.

Something about it feels strange too, the idea of Brendan knowing what's going on there.

"You don't talk to Darren like that."

Ste hadn't even been aware that Brendan knew Darren's name. He hadn't seemed to pay attention to things like that. He hadn't seemed to pay attention to anything much.

"You don't talk to Darren like this either, do you. Like you talk to me. But that doesn't mean we're close."

He drains the last of his cocktail, can see that Brendan's already finished his.

"He's been there, that's all. Tony. He's been there."

"Instead of who?"

Ste looks at him blankly.

"Why do you need him there?" Brendan says.

"That's a different question."

"So? I changed it."

Ste leaves him, questions firmly ignored, and puts his glass down on the table that's nearest to them. It earns him a couple of glances from some of the girls standing around, who clearly don't appreciate him using their space as a dumping ground.

He pretends he hasn't seen them - it's not his intention to impress or please them - and he makes his way over to Brendan again. The deflection has worked. They're on safe ground now.

"Want another?" Brendan looks like he's already heading back to the bar.

"No. I've got to go."

He thinks Brendan will protest, start on about calling up Carmel again, but he doesn't.

"I'll take you back."

It takes Ste a moment to realise that the offer isn't in his head. That Brendan's actually said it.

"Don't be stupid."

"You're drunk."

"No I'm not." He's getting there though; he can hear how slurred his speech is becoming.

"Tipsy then. Whatever. You're not walking."

"I'll get the bus then."

"Save the fare."

"I'm not poor, Brendan."

"Never said you were, Steven."

He always has an answer, a retort. Bastard.

"Let me go then."

"Stop being so fucking difficult. Just say yes."

"I'm not a kid. I don't need you walking me home."

Ste doesn't know if it's the lights of the club playing tricks on him, but the rotter's eyes look sore, rimmed with red. He'll be tired, won't he, having worn the contacts all day.

"We're going," Brendan says, and he motions for Ste to be the one to start heading towards the door first. It's clear he's not going to allow the possibility of him getting out of his sight.

Ste goes, reluctantly. He can see the looks that Brendan attracts as they make their way out. Some people are obvious with it - particularly the ones who seem the most bladdered, Ste notices - and others try to hide it, but they're still looking at them both. Wondering what Brendan's doing here. Wondering what Ste's doing with him. He hopes he isn't recognised, that no one here makes the connection between him and the Human Volunteer Force. He'd been asked to be here with Brendan tonight, but still he doesn't want people to talk.

And he's not sure that Brendan walking him home was what Warren and Danny had in mind.

It feels good to be out in the open air, away from the buzz of the crowd and the music. There's still a small queue forming outside, but they only have to walk a short distance until it's silent. It's a shock, going from one extreme to the other, and Ste's suddenly all too aware that he's got himself into a vulnerable position; he's drunk and alone with a rotter, and he hasn't got his gun.

Maybe Brendan can smell his fear, because the next thing he knows he's filling the silence like it's enough to dilute Ste's panic.

"You heard from Veronica lately?"

It doesn't register with Ste at first. It's only a fraction of a second that he doesn't know who Brendan's talking about, but it's enough to make him realise how far he's pushed Veronica from his mind.

"No." He kicks an empty beer can across the street, listens as it rattles, watches as it rolls.

"What's the matter? I can never usually shut you up."

There's something about Brendan's tone which suggests he's wanting to be casual, but Ste doesn't buy it.

"She was just someone I knew once." He's stopped hoping that she'll call him. He's stopped expecting her to, as though they have any sort of unfinished business. It feels done. Final. "Anyway," he says, because he doesn't want this to go any further, "Tell me more about these clubbing days of yours."

"What do you want to know?" Brendan asks, seems amazed that Ste _would_ want to know anything.

"Everything."

Maybe Brendan's aware that he's only introduced the subject as avoidance. But now that Ste's asked he finds a part of him genuinely wants to know; he can't help but be curious about Brendan's life before, even if the whole thing is made up.

"Take your pick, Steven."

"How did you do it? My Amy would kill me if I was out all hours. Tonight's just a one off. Even when I get home late from patrols she gives me ear ache the next morning. Didn't your Eileen mind?"

As he's saying it he thinks nothing of it, but once he's asked and seen Brendan's reaction - tight lipped, his brow creased, his eyes to the ground like he's trying to control himself - he hears it back, thinks about how personal it sounds.

"Sorry." He laughs at himself for apologising, tries to brush it off. Brendan can't think he can walk all over him more than he already has. But he feels like he's touched a nerve, asking about his family for the second time tonight. He's sure he's going to get a snide remark, or Brendan changing his mind entirely and letting him walk the rest of the way back alone.

"She did kill me."

Ste looks at him.

"Not _literally_. I didn't die because..."

"No, course not. I didn't think that," Ste says, although he had thought that, for a second. She wouldn't be the first person who's lost control, who thought they were capable of something like that. "So what you said before, all that about your missus flipping if you went out all the time... you really did all that?"

Brendan nods. "She got at me. A lot. Eileen, she... liked having a go about me not being there, about... about stopping, changing direction." There's a trace of bitterness to it by the end, and Ste can imagine Brendan visualising it all: the arguments they used to have, the attacks she'd hurl at him.

"Why didn't you then? I'm not having a go," Ste adds when Brendan gives him a look. "I'm just saying. If she was so fussed about you going out all the time, why didn't you just not do it?"

"I couldn't."

Ste can tell it's meant to be a cut off point, but Brendan's made a mistake; in drawing attention to it like it's a no go zone, Ste wants to know even more.

"Why not?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It obviously does though."

"Drop it."

There's silence, Ste's mind churning. Something keeps coming up again and again, a thought in his head that links with what Cheryl had said about Brendan and Eileen having problems.

Brendan met someone. That's why he'd been going out so much. He'd met someone at one of these places, one of these clubs. Someone who wasn't his wife.

He doesn't say it. He knows nothing for sure, and as much as he wouldn't normally hesitate at pissing Brendan off, he doesn't fancy his chances at this hour, being this unsteady on his feet, unarmed and with only a few streetlights to guide his way.

"You don't have to go the rest of the way with me." Brendan could already be home now in the time they've taken to walk.

Brendan ignores him like what he's said doesn't deserve a reply. He stops when he realises that Ste's fallen behind, stood in place like he's forgotten how to move.

"You coming?" He looks tired but defiant. Ste suddenly gets the image of Brendan picking him up and carrying him over his shoulder to get him home. He doesn't know where it comes from, and it flashes from his mind as quickly as it appears.

"Yeah. I'm coming," he says, and he resumes his position at Brendan's side.


	17. Chapter 17

He thinks they'll be in silence for the rest of the walk back to the flat, and he's regretting his decision to let Brendan tag along. Not that he had a choice in the matter.

He doesn't feel the discomfort he expected though. Maybe it's all the drinks he had, but the intense fear that he'd usually feel when being alone with Brendan doesn't seem to come. Or maybe it's being out in the open like this, and moving, not standing still like they'd done before in the park, where Ste had felt like there would be no one to save him if he screamed.

It almost feels normal, _casual_ , like it's not a rotter he's walking alongside. Like it's not someone who's intimidated him, who's attacked him. Like it's not someone he has to kill.

It's definitely the alcohol.

The silence is broken by the sound of music. There are usually house parties around this area, often well into the early hours, and Ste recognises the flat it's blasting from even if he doesn't know the people inside. It's not the same as the music at the club - it's even more commercial, more something you'd hear repeated on the radio time and time again - and there's not the pressure in Ste's skull that there was before either. For the first time tonight he allows himself to enjoy it.

It surprises him when he sees that they're already a few roads away from his flat. It's taken less time than he'd thought to get here, and he stops so abruptly that if anyone was behind him they'd crash straight into each other.

"This is me."

It's not, and he wonders if Brendan knows it too. The consequences of deceiving the rotter scare him, but the idea of Brendan knowing exactly where he lives scares him more. It would be beyond reckless, leading him right to his door. He doesn't care about Brendan's previous mutterings of _that estate_ or the feeling that he can't shake that Brendan had followed him home. He has no concrete evidence. If there's a chance, however small, that Brendan has no idea what his true address is, then Ste's going to try to preserve that ignorance.

But he has a new thought, equally as horrifying: that he's just led Brendan outside some poor innocent person's house, and now they'll be the subject of his stalking.

Ste makes an attempt to distance himself from the flat they're stood outside of, pretending that _this is me_ is more of a general statement, that he could live in any one of these places. He's banking on the hope that Brendan wouldn't go to each and every flat just to check.

He nearly does it; nearly lets Brendan walk away with him standing there, before making a run for it back to where he really lives. Self preservation tells him to do it, that nothing bad will happen, that only good can come of it.

But before Brendan can leave him and think that he lives on this road, alongside these people who shouldn't be involved in any of this, his conscience - that stupid, stupid thing - stops him.

"Just a few roads down. That's me." It's a shaky correction, so paper-thin that Brendan must know what he had intended to do, but the rotter doesn't say anything. He just lets Ste guide him, lets them resume walking.

Ste hates this, hates that he could be playing a part in giving Brendan access to him and Amy and the kids, but he has a responsibility - not as someone who's in the HVF, but as someone who's trying not to fuck up more than he's already done. If someone dies because of him - if Brendan's planning to attack him in his sleep - then he'd be responsible for that, forever. He couldn't live with that.

They approach Ste's flat. He hadn't thought about it until now, but this is a bad idea for another reason. He sees how it must look from Brendan's eyes: the overgrown weeds in the thing that can barely be called a front garden. The windows that have been repaired since the glass was smashed into, but which still seem to have everlasting evidence of the damage done, like a scar which won't heal. The front door with its chipped paint. The rips in the curtains. The rubbish spilling out of the bin bags where they haven't been tied up properly.

"I wasn't expecting anyone, so." He can feel Brendan looking at him. He's growing defensive, irritated, even though he's aware nothing's been said. "Didn't think I'd be having my own personal stalker walking me home. Sorry if I forgot to tidy up."

He's poised, ready for anything that's hurled his way. He's seen Brendan's flat, knows that it's the opposite of this. They probably fluff the cushions where he lives.

"Goodnight, Steven." He's already walking away.

"Is that it?"

No retaliation, no clever remarks, no attack?

Brendan shushes him.

"Don't want to wake Amy and the kids, do you?"

Had he been loud? He hadn't even realised. He makes an attempt to lower his voice.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," Brendan says, as though it's obvious, and maybe it is, but Ste hadn't thought it would be this easy.

"What makes it safe for you to go home on your own but not me?"

"Really?" Brendan points a finger at Ste and back again, drawing attention to their differences.

"You said you haven't got any powers. I'm _trained_ , remember?"

He hears Brendan laugh.

"Against what, a puppy? You use a gun. That's all."

"It's more than you've got."

Brendan breathes in deeply. He may have had as much as Ste to drink, but it doesn't show. He looks level headed, focused.

"You don't forget."

"Forget what?" Ste says. It's surreal to have this conversation outside where he lives; they're on safe ground, but they're not. He doesn't like the idea that his children are sleeping on the other side, and he's led this man - this _thing_ \- straight to them.

"The things you've done. _How_ to do the things you've done."

Ste doesn't know if it's a threat. It sounds like it when he repeats the words over in his head, but when he hears Brendan say it it doesn't sound like a warning. It sounds like honesty.

"You're not going to do anything though, are you?"

It's a pointless question; Brendan wouldn't even tell him if he was planning on it. Ste would be the last person he'd go to, but still he asks.

Brendan smiles. They both know that nothing could stop him from doing something.

"Not tonight."

"Not any night. Okay?"

"I'm going home. Don't wake the kids, alright? And mind the squeaking floorboard. It's always a killer."

It's only when Ste's already through the front door that the words truly sink in. How the fuck did he know about the floorboard?

::::::

He's expecting Amy to give him the silent treatment for being out till the early hours.

What he gets is worse. She's being _nice_ to him.

She's got breakfast all ready and prepared on the table in the morning. Ste doesn't know how she's done it - the kids are as hyper and energetic as ever, and he knows she's a light sleeper, that she most likely would have woken up when he'd come in last night. She still manages a smile, drawing back the chair for him, putting down a knife and fork and a glass of orange juice - freshly squeezed - for him. All for him.

"Ames." He doesn't know what to say, and the _thanks_ he mumbles sounds half hearted. He can hear the guilt there, wonders if she can hear it too. He makes the mistake of asking her what this is all for, and it sends her off on one. His _hard work_ is mentioned, and how _he_ _does more for the HVF than all of the rest of them put together_ , and how _she appreciates it even if she doesn't always show it._

If he had an appetite before then he's lost it now.

"Don't mention it," he says, and he's not sure that she realises how literally he means it.

She's on a roll now though.

"I mean it. Everything you're doing, it's..." She looks at the kids before she goes on, monitors her words even though Leah and Lucas are too busy talking to each other and drinking the chocolate milk that their Coco Pops have left behind. "I know it's all for us."

"It is," he says, and at least that's not a lie. It _is_ all for them. "It's all gonna be worth it. At the end of all this, it's... it'll make sense. It'll be for something, you know?" He hopes he doesn't sound as desperate as he feels.

She smiles at him, then gets distracted by the sound of the toast popping up. She butters it, hands a slice to him, and he tries to tell himself he's not doing anything wrong, that he's not making a mockery of everything she's doing for him.

::::::

He gets a sense of deja vu. It's like the morning after Brendan had told him he knew about his dyslexia. He's got that same feeling of uneasiness in his stomach, that same nervousness as he makes his way to the meeting point at the centre of the village.

He can't get Brendan's last words out of his head. _Mind the squeaking floorboard. It's always a killer._

Had it been a threat? Something to let Ste know that Brendan had been in his home - potentially in the middle of the night, for all Ste knew - and it was a way of telling him that he could get in and out anytime he wanted.

Ste couldn't work it out. There hadn't been any sign of a break in recently, and it wasn't like it was easy to get inside without a key. Brendan would have had to kick the door in, and he and Amy wouldn't have missed something like that. Amy was home a lot during the day when she wasn't taking the kids out or visiting Mike and her sister, and she'd wake up in the night if she heard a disturbance. Brendan had a habit of creeping up on people, something Ste had learnt only too well, but surely he couldn't be _that_ sneaky.

But if he was getting in somehow, Ste had to ask himself why. He wasn't sure he wanted to know; it made him panic that Brendan could stumble across something that he shouldn't see, but Ste couldn't think of anything incriminating that he left lying around. Everything important from the HVF was in Warren's hands. Ste didn't have any paperwork or anything that anyone would want.

It must have been a throwaway thing. Something that Brendan had said to him to spook him out, to keep him on his toes. They'd had a weird night, weird because it _hadn't_ been weird. Ste wasn't naive enough to think that what they'd done had been a lads' night out - Brendan wasn't a _lad_ , after all - but it hadn't been a million miles away from what he and Justin had used to do together. The drinking, the talking. It was different, but not so different that it had seemed like something from someone else's life.

He should have known that Brendan couldn't leave it at that. It was never going to be a simple _goodnight_ or _goodbye_. He had to add something threatening. The predictability of it almost makes Ste laugh.

He expects Brendan to be late or one of the last to arrive like he usually is, but he's the first there. Ste hangs back, considers hiding until he sees someone else coming, but it's too late. Brendan's spotted him, and Ste's not going to give him the chance to know that there's a part of him that's still intimidated.

"Morning."

"That's a change."

"What is?"

"You saying morning. Usually you just grunt at me."

"You can talk. Most of the time you don't even look at me," Ste says, hands in pockets.

"You want me to look at you?"

Ste scuffs his trainers against the pavement, looks down at them.

"Stop being..."

"What?" Brendan asks.

Ste swiftly changes the subject.

"Why are you so early? Aren't you knackered after last night?"

He looks it. There are always lines around Brendan's eyes, but they're more pronounced now. Ste doesn't know if it's possible for stubble to grow that much overnight, but he notices it on Brendan, notices how there's hair where a beard would grow, the shadow of it.

It suits him.

He must have been staring, because Brendan asks him, "What?"

"Nothing. I didn't say anything. Anyway, I asked you a question."

"I'm fine. I can handle my drink."

"Why did you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I can't handle mine?"

Brendan clears his throat, sounds like he's trying to stifle laughter behind it.

"What?" Ste says. He wasn't _that_ bad. He could walk in a straight line, more or less. He could turn his key in the lock. He didn't wake the kids. For him that's progress.

"It's not your fault you're scrawny."

Ste glances down at himself quickly, reddening.

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Goes straight to you, doesn't it."

"I was fine. I didn't even feel it."

Fucking _scrawny_. He should put him right, but he's too busy concentrating on trying to be convincing. The truth is, there had been a moment last night where he'd nearly stumbled head first into the mirror in the bathroom. He'd caught himself at the last minute, but there had been a repeat performance later on when he'd nearly fallen when getting into bed. There must have been something on the floor, something he'd tripped over.

He hadn't been sick though. And he didn't have a headache (at least not after chugging down four or five glasses of water and taking a couple of painkillers.) Brendan's making something out of nothing.

"Where are you going?"

Brendan's started walking away from him.

"Getting a coffee. Want one?"

"No."

"Why? You drink it, don't you?"

"Yeah, but -"

"And we both need it."

"You're not buying me one."

"I bought you a drink last night. Several, in fact."

"That was different."

"Why?" Brendan asks curiously, like he really doesn't know.

"Because last night was last night. We're at work now." Technically he was at work last night, but Brendan doesn't need to know that. "Tony's going to be here in a minute."

"So? I won't tell him if you don't."

Ste shakes his head resolutely. He doesn't like this. He's not going to let it happen - Brendan buying things for him, acting like it's normal, like he's not here for one reason only. If he doesn't make the lines clear now then Brendan will think he can overstep them whenever he wants.

Brendan shrugs his shoulders, turns his back on him.

Ste's alone again. He can see Brendan through the coffee shop window, watches as he waits - impatiently - for the guy behind the counter to serve him, and waits - even more impatiently - for his coffee to be made. If he remembers the last time they were both in there together, when Brendan had him pinned up against the sink in the bathroom, then he's not showing it. If he were to turn his head he'd see Ste looking at him, but he doesn't.

Ste can see him adding three sachets of sugar, stirring them before blowing on the cup.

He looks away when Brendan comes back out.

"You sure you don't want one?"

"I'm sure." He can smell the coffee through the container, and even that's enough to make him feel more alert, but he's not going back on it now. He can buy his own coffee. "Save your money for Carmel."

::::::

He hadn't really thought she'd show up, not today. She hadn't seemed to drink much, at least not enough to make Brendan go back in the cab with her last night, but Ste had told himself that Brendan's reputation as a gentleman was non existent, and he'd imagined her spending the day holed up in bed, underneath the covers and going over everything that Brendan had said and what every smile of his had meant, or whatever it was that girls did after a date.

He hadn't expected _this_. The tottering heels, the make up, the packed lunch. That was by far the worst part of it all; the brown bag that she'd stowed away, full to the brim like she was some kind of stepford wife.

It makes Tony laugh. It makes Ste want to claw his eyes out.

Ridiculous is what it is. He's made better lunches for the kids. She's bought Brendan sandwiches - squashed, severely - and one of those juice cartons like he's ten years old. There's an apple that looks so bruised that Ste's sure it's just fallen from its tree, and a pack of crisps which appear to be open and half eaten already.

"That's our Michaela, sorry," Carmel says, snatching them back when Brendan takes them out, the contents spilling onto the floor. "I told her to leave them, that they were for someone special."

 _Someone special._

"He's already ordered." Ste's stood a fair bit away from where Brendan and Carmel are, but when he speaks everyone seems to hear him. Everyone seems to look at him.

Brendan's already interrupting him.

"That's alright."

"No, it's not alright. That's a waste of food, that is. What are they meant to do, send it back to the kitchen?"

"Can't someone else have it?" Carmel asks, says it so sweetly that the innocence of the whole thing makes Ste feel even angrier.

"No, they can't." He can sense Tony moving closer to him, trying to get a word in. "Sorry, Carmel, but you're going to have to take it back."

It's not just Tony that's trying to intervene. He's got the full attention of Jacqui now too, and with Jacqui comes Rhys. Both of them are looking at him like he's saying something wrong, but it's not him, it's _her_. It's both of them, Carmel and Brendan. They've always got to make things difficult.

"Right, that's... I understand." Carmel takes the bag from Brendan, holds it so tightly that it crinkles the paper.

She looks like she's about to cry.

He's relieved when right at that moment their food is brought out. _See_ , he wants to say. _See, I'm not doing this to be horrible._

They all huddle around the table, but there's an atmosphere now. He can feel it. He's created it, and the others aren't doing anything to make it better. What's worse is, he's made them feel sorry for Carmel. They draw up a chair for her, place her next to Brendan, and Ste's reminded of something: being on the outside looking in at them at the club. It's that same sensation. He's watching but he's not there. No one can see him.

::::::

"That was a bit out of order."

They're clearing up for the day when Tony comes over to him. Ste had hoped he'd escaped it, but he knows that Tony was just biding his time, waiting until he could get him alone.

He feigns innocence, wonders how long he can pretend he doesn't know what's going on for. He manages about five, ten seconds maximum.

"Carmel." Tony gives him a testing the waters smile, but it doesn't show in his eyes. He's treading carefully here, assessing the mood like you might if you were approaching a wild animal, cautious in case you're going to be attacked.

"The lunch had already been paid for."

"Yeah, by Brendan. Who cares? It doesn't affect us."

"It does."

"How?" Tony's trying to keep up with him as he packs up his stuff, trying to move as he moves. "She's fine, Ste. She makes Jacqui calmer when she's here. And it's not just her - the others behave better when there's a copper around."

Ste sniffs. " _Copper_. Why do people keep saying that? She's just a dogsbody in a uniform."

He doesn't know what kind of reaction he'd expected from this. A pat on the back, Tony shaking his hand?

He's being looked at like he's done something wrong, and the "Back off, mate" that Tony gives him doesn't sound so _matey_.

"I'm saying this because I care, right." He can't help pressing it when Tony gives him a pointed look. "I do! I'm the only one looking out for her."

That's done it. He's an idiot.

"What do you mean, the only one?"

They've both come to a standstill. Comfort is usually what he feels with Tony. Security. Not this. Not feeling like he's stood at the edge of a cliff and is about to be thrown off it.

"Ste?"

He can't think of a way to get out of it.

"I think Brendan's trying to involve her in something."

He's got Tony's undivided attention now, and the intensity of it makes Ste feel like he's burning under his gaze. He thought the paranoia had eased in recent weeks, but it's back with a vengeance; if someone told him that Danny Houston was waiting in a hiding place, overhearing his every word, then Ste wouldn't hesitate to believe them. He wouldn't be surprised if a person like that had that kind of power, could be all seeing and all knowing.

"In what?"

Ste can see that he's been given a chance, the benefit of the doubt, but that's all it feels like. Tony's doing it for his sake, not because he believes in what he's about to say.

"I don't know yet." He realises how pitiful it sounds. "I just know that something doesn't add up."

Tony shakes his head. "I told you, she's a pretty girl -"

"There's something more. I know it. You've got to believe me." He says it as though that's it, that the words alone will make Tony switch sides, will make him think that Ste's the one to trust in all of this.

"Maybe you should tell Warren about this. It's not good, fixating on all this. You're meant to be getting rid of him, not analysing his relationship."

"Warren knows."

"What?"

"He knows." Ste looks around, makes sure that a rotter hasn't snuck back towards them, but they're all gone for the day. Still he keeps his voice a note lower. "He asked me to follow them yesterday. Brendan and Carmel."

" _Follow_ them?" Tony's reaction gives Ste pause for thought: does it sound crazy, what he's doing? It's become a kind of normality to him that it's a shock to look at it through someone else's eyes.

"Not in a weird way." He can hear how defensive he sounds.

"What other way is there to follow someone?"

"I was more watching them."

"Oh, this just gets better." Tony lets out a laugh, looks at him like he's asking _don't you see what I see?_

Tony doesn't know though. He doesn't have Danny and Warren breathing down his neck every week. He doesn't know that this is his only way out.

"It wasn't - stop trying to make it sound... I had to, alright?" It's important that he draws the line between them, makes it clear. He's not _with_ Danny and Warren. "Warren asked me, and I couldn't say no." He's still hasn't said anything that could give it all away. There's been no mention of Danny, and Tony's not the type to spread stories around.

"What happened?"

"They were together, sort of like... you know."

"On a date?"

"Kind of. I just had to see if anything happened."

"What were you expecting? Brendan to bust out his moves on the dance floor? That's the scoop Warren wants, is it?"

He shakes his head at Tony until he takes it seriously again.

"What did you find?"

"Nothing really," Ste says. He briefly considers bringing up what happened in the alleyway, with Brendan purposefully trying to scare him, and everything that happened after. But everything after includes Brendan buying him drinks. Brendan walking him home. Brendan suggesting that he'd been in his flat.

He's not sure Tony would understand.

"So in other words you just witnessed a completely normal date between two people?"

Ste remembers the way they'd sat close together. The way she'd laughed at what he was saying, and the way he had too. The way Brendan had led her through the packed club with ease, like he was parting the crowd effortlessly just for her. His hand on her back when he'd done it.

There hadn't been a kiss though, not one that he'd seen. Carmel hadn't kissed anyone in over a year - that's what Jacqui had said. But last night could have been the night when she'd changed that. There had been a small window of opportunity when Ste had lost sight of them when they'd left the club. Brendan could have kissed her then, before she'd gone home in the cab. There would have been enough time.

Ste has no way of knowing.

"Normal, yeah."

Maybe it's him. Maybe it's all in his head, the feeling that something's off - not just then, but all the other days too, every time he's seen them together. Brendan had been on his best behaviour last night, although the mere idea of it makes him want to laugh. It's undeniable though. Carmel hadn't looked uncomfortable in his company. She hadn't walked out on him. And when she'd shown up today it was with the expectation of something; Ste could see it in her eyes, the hope that was there, and how he'd crushed it when he'd interrupted them.

"So are you going to let it drop?" Tony says, like it's that easy.

"No, I'm not going to let it _drop_. Just because nothing happened last night, doesn't mean that it won't." Especially now that he knows that Brendan knew he was there the entire time, watching them. It makes sense now why the night had been so uneventful, why he hadn't tried anything. Of course he wouldn't.

"Just be careful. Please."

There's so much concern in Tony's eyes that Ste feels himself thawing.

"I will be. I am. Listen, I better..." He gestures behind him, the politest way he can think of to say he needs to go. Tony accepts it, doesn't try to convince him to stay. Ste has a feeling that he's relieved.

"But I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't you?"

There's a beat before Tony speaks again.

"Nothing," he says. "Nothing."

"Tony. I'm not... I'm coming back. You know that? Nothing's going to happen."

He needs him to know that. If he does then Ste can feel it too, can convince himself that it'll be okay. A form of protection, almost.

"I know." He smiles then, a reassurance, and it gives Ste the permission he needs to go.

::::::

Part of him expects to see Brendan's car waiting when he leaves the park, but there's no sign of him. A few times Ste looks behind him to check if he's being followed, but there's nothing. He must have left with Carmel. Ste had seen her waiting at the end of the day. That's another thing to add to his list about her: that she doesn't appear to be doing any work.

He's almost home when he gets the phone call, and he's forced to take a detour. _Come now,_ Warren says, barking into the phone, and Ste has to see if he's accidentally put him on loudspeaker.

Once a week is what he's used to. Once a week he has to be with Danny and Warren, to be sat in the near darkness of the basement and attempt to work out what they want to hear. It's more than he can stand as it is, but he endures it because he knows that's it, that there's space between that visit and the next. Not like now. Not _one_ day.

He texts Amy, tells her he needs to see Warren - again protection in case he goes missing, even though he knows it'll make her worry - and then he's straight round there, a bag of nerves even before he approaches Warren's road.

Every time he thinks this is it, that he's about to be told that today's the day when he'll kill Brendan. It would explain why he's being called over so soon, but he doesn't dare to feel hope - or dread - because he knows now that to try to guess what Danny's got planned only ever leads to more confusion and disappointment. He knows what people mean now when they talk about a head fuck.

There's more of a sense of urgency than ever. Ste's barely finished knocking on the door when he's rushed inside and pushed downstairs. He doesn't have time to adjust to the light, or lack thereof, before he's instructed to sit down.

There's no distance between him and Danny today. Warren's stood back near the basement stairs, but Danny's standing in front of him (always in front, always towering over him, never at Ste's level) and there's the usual command. _Speak_.

"I went to the club." It's an unncessary addition. Of course he went to the club. He was never not going to go. He didn't have a choice.

Danny seems to think the same; he gestures impatiently, and there's a manic quality to him that Ste hasn't seen to this extent before. He's excited.

"I had to wait a while, but then I saw them both." Again more added filler, something to take up time because he doesn't know how to spin the story, how to make it sound more interesting than it is.

"What else?" Danny says, keen to hurry him along.

"I don't know, it was just..." He thinks of Tony's words from earlier, how Ste had rejected them at the time, but how truthful it had been. "It was just two people on a date."

Danny laughs. Ste's come to hate the insincerity of it, the way it sounds twisted, a way to punish him.

"What happened?" He's managed to brush his comment away as though it's meaningless.

"He didn't do anything. He was buying her drinks, that's all."

"Was he searched?"

"What?"

"You had to be searched to get into the club, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Ste says, wonders how Danny knows about this. As much as Ste had feared he'd been spying on them, it's difficult to imagine him outside of these four walls; even when he'd been at the pub when they'd first met he'd looked out of place, like he'd been painted in somehow.

"Was Brendan?"

"He must have been."

"But you didn't see it?"

"No, but -"

Danny looks away from him, turns to Warren.

"Contact whoever was on security that night. Ask them."

Warren nods.

"Can you do that? Isn't it like..." Ste struggles for the words. "I don't know, against Brendan's rights or something?"

Danny laughs again; Warren does too. Ste had forgotten. Rotters aren't meant to have rights.

"You know what I mean. Why do you want to know anyway? What do you think he did?"

"What happened after that?"

"Wait a second, you didn't -"

 _You didn't answer the question._

"What happened?"

Ste grips the inside of his seat, his hands curling into fists.

"I told you, it was just normal stuff. They didn't do anything."

"And you were with Brady the entire time?"

"'Course. Didn't take my eyes off either of them, did I?" He waits, half expecting to be congratulated for his work. He goes on when he realises it's not going to happen. "I did everything you said."

"This is important." Danny bends down, still not eye to eye with Ste, but low enough that it makes Ste feel even more like a child that's done something wrong. "You need to tell me if there was a single second when you lost them. Just one second. That's all it takes."

 _He knows. He's found out somehow._

Ste doesn't know whether to come clean. He hadn't felt like he was being watched, and he hadn't seen Danny anywhere, but then again he hadn't known that Brendan knew he was there the entire time. And it might not have been Danny doing the watching; he could have hired someone else, someone Ste doesn't know to keep tabs on him.

He risks the lie.

"No. I was always with him."

Five minutes it had been. Five minutes where he'd lost Brendan in the crowd. What could he have done in that amount of time?

It pays off. Danny looks like he accepts his answer.

"Good." He raises himself to his full height again, and Ste feels himself relax a bit more. "Now you're going to do something else for us."

 _No._ He wants to scream it, but what's the point? No one outside these walls would hear him.

"What is it?" He's afraid of the answer.

"You've been spending a bit of time with Brady, haven't you." It's a statement, not a question.

"Have I?" Ste looks between Danny and Warren, feeling like he's missed a step.

"There's CCTV in that alleyway."

 _Fuck_.

"What alleyway?" It's his immediate reaction - a fight for survival, some might call it, to deny the existence of something that might cause him harm - but he can tell it's the wrong road to go down. Danny doesn't like liars.

Ste knows he's seen it all. Brendan following him, dragging him back with his hand over his mouth. He must have seen them going back into the club too. _How_ is what Ste wants to know, even though it won't help him in any way. How did he get access to the CCTV? And how long is it before he gets a copy of the recording from the club, if there is one, and he finds out that Ste lost track of Brendan?

Danny ignores his attempt to save himself.

"What were you talking about?"

More lies. It's the only thing Ste can do. He doesn't want to know the consequences if Danny finds out that Brendan knew he was tailing him.

"He was just messing with me, that's all. You know Brendan. He doesn't like me."

He thinks he's going to be questioned further on this, but Danny ploughs ahead.

"What happened next?" He's alert, listening carefully like every answer matters.

"We went back to the club." He has to say that - he doesn't know whether Danny has CCTV for that as well.

Danny stares at him, waiting for him to go on.

"He was intimidating me. Trying to get me drunk. Probably wanted me off my guard."

It's the best spin he can put on it, better than: _He bought me drinks. He didn't hold me there against my will, but I felt I had to stay. We walked home together. He didn't try to attack me. It felt more normal than it should._

He can see the story building in Danny's head. It's not perfect; Ste knows that he'll think he was weak for allowing Brendan to force him to do anything, but it's the better option. He knows that if there was CCTV in the alleyway then there's a good chance that Danny would have seen them leaving together too, but he hopes that's where it ends; he hopes that Danny didn't see them walking all the way home together somehow, because then he's a dead man. He has no excuse for that.

"Spend time with him."

Ste's too dumbstruck to say anything. Something escapes from his lips, some sort of sound, but it's unintelligible. Even Warren looks surprised by the instruction.

Ste swallows, knows that this is his cue.

"I'm working with him." That's all it was meant to be. That was how far it was going to go. He works with him, waits for Brendan to screw up - publicly, so they have witnesses - and then he kills him. "You must have seen his hand around my mouth. Isn't that enough?"

Danny laughs dismissively.

Ste remembers what Tony had said. Don't get too close, don't get involved in Brendan's personal life. Already Ste's broken that. He should never have gone to his house, but it's not too late to stop all this. He can put distance between them, make sure that he stays later after work so that Brendan won't wait for him.

"Can't someone else do it?"

"No," Danny says simply, making it clear it's not up for debate.

Still Ste tries.

"Darren could do it, or one of the girls. Maybe Brendan would be better with them. He might give them less of a hard time." He's fully aware that Danny doesn't care about how Brendan treats him. Appealing to his more sympathetic side isn't going to work. "He's going to think it's weird if I suddenly start tagging around after him, isn't he?" He looks at Warren, tries to get an ally from somewhere.

"Then don't tag after him. Let him come to you."

"What makes you think he'll come to me?"

"Just a feeling."

He knows he's not supposed to ask why. He's not meant to ask anything, but he's increasingly realising that things are getting more complicated as they go along, not less.

"When it is going to happen? How much longer do I have to wait till I..."

"Impatient, are we?"

"I just want this done." He's never wanted to be out of the HVF more than he does now. It used to be something that was dragging him down, but not like this. Not like something that was choking him, that was a constant source of tension and worry.

When he'd thought about dying, he'd always assumed that a rabid would get him in the end. He hadn't understood before now that the danger had lied elsewhere, that it would come from one of his own.


	18. Chapter 18

He gives up on trying to get to sleep sometime in the early hours. He doesn't look at the clock, doesn't want to know the time because it'll only make him feel worse, make him aware of how abnormal it is for him to be awake now when everyone else is fast asleep, no sign of movement in the flat.

He sits up in bed, leans against the headboard in the darkness. If Amy goes to the bathroom in the middle of the night then she'll see his light on, and he can't have that; he doesn't want her to worry more than she already is. He adjusts to the shadows in his room, memorises where everything would be if the light was on, and his eyes flit over it all as though it'll calm him that it's all in its right place, that something still is.

He can't keep doing this. It's an endless loop that only he can break - this worrying, this unpredictability about what tomorrow might bring. _Tomorrow_ has ceased to be something that gives him any comfort; now it's all about getting through the next thing, and then the next. The meetings with Danny and Warren. Trying not to fuck up at work so that his group don't have another reason to laugh at him. Seeing Carmel at every turn and knowing that something's not right. Being told to stay away from Brendan. Being told to be with him. It's all a mess in his mind, a push and pull, and _he's_ the one being pushed, and _he's_ the one being pulled, and no one else seems to know or care.

He doesn't want to be alone, not tonight.

For the first time in a long time he considers calling Rae. She'll probably think he's drunk, contacting her at this hour, but there's a chance that she'll be up too, coming back from a party. She always was like that, Rae - Ste vaguely remembers that she DJ'd at a couple of clubs in her spare time, so he might not be waking her.

 _Fizzled out_ is how she'd described things going between them. Those had been her exact words, as he'd sat opposite her, knowing what she was saying and wanting to save face by pretending that he wasn't all that interested in the contents. _Things between us have just fizzled out._ It had seemed pathetic at the time - had made _him_ seem pathetic - and it had gone round and round in his head until it became something vicious, something that was somehow mocking him, like he was the one entirely in the wrong.

He couldn't say that he didn't play some part. He spent too much time away from her and with the kids, apparently, and his living situation with Amy hadn't helped. Living under the same roof as his ex had been difficult to justify, even though Amy and Rae had got on well enough on the rare times they'd been together.

That hadn't been all. According to Rae he was _withdrawn_ , although Ste couldn't work out what that meant. He knew he wasn't quiet with her; he wasn't quiet with anyone. As far as he could tell he'd said all the right things, done all the right things. It scared him that she had found him lacking. If he'd given everything and still lost her, then what were the chances that anyone else would want him?

He still hasn't called her. If she doesn't think he's been drinking then she'll think he's only calling for one thing, and it could go two ways: either she'd be insulted that he'd think he could contact her again after so long with no word and expect _that_ , or there was the small chance that she would say yes, and then they could arrange to meet.

They'd worked, hadn't they. He strains to remember, the time and distance making things blurred, unclear in his mind, but he's sure that there had been _something_ ; that parts of it had worked if not everything. Sometimes he had lied in her bed for a little while after they'd had sex, and he hadn't felt like when he'd been with Veronica. He hadn't felt the unsettling urgency to get up and get out of there. Rae had never kicked him out either, or had unexplained phone calls from a rotter, or been involved in something that she'd refused to tell him about. Things had been simpler back then.

It could be what he needs, a fresh start but with someone who he knows, not another disastrous date with someone he meets online. He hasn't been tempted to go on the site for weeks, but it's slowly creeping up on him now, that cloying feeling of loneliness that always hits him the worst at this hour. If he could sleep then maybe he wouldn't have to think about any of this. Maybe he wouldn't even be considering calling up Rae.

He switches his phone off. He's less likely to call her now, but still he has to hold on to his pillow and grip on hard, another measure to stop his hands from straying and switching his phone back to leave her a humiliating message.

He waits for sleep to come.

 _Fizzled out. Withdrawn._

::::::

He's weighing up the odds as he goes through his usual routine: Breakfast. See the kids. Convince Amy that he's okay. Get the gun from the top of the shelf. Walk into the centre of town (they're picking up the litter from the streets today, a new brand of public shame.)

He does it all methodically, the actions disconnected with what's going on in his head. His thoughts are so loud and incessant that he's surprised no one else can hear them. It's a game but a torturous one - if someone's having fun playing it, then it's not him - and by the end of it he still doesn't know what the outcome is.

If someone were to crack into his skull then it would all spill out; the endless panic over whether Brendan will try to give him a lift home today. The knowledge that Ste will have to go with him in case Danny's watching somewhere, making sure that he stays true to his promise. Not knowing what will happen in the car.

He's faced worse. He's faced a _lot_ worse. A rotter shouldn't scare him, not when he's dealt with a rabid single handedly, not when he's been through what he's been through. But he'd take all that now against sitting in a car with Brendan Brady, trying to form some kind of friendship. Its not just the obvious alarm bells ringing in his head - that Brendan's a rotter, that as soon as Warren and Danny give him the all clear he has to kill him. It's the other things, the little things, the things which shouldn't be bothering him. Primarily that it's been so long since he had a friend that he's forgotten how it works.

He's not sure Amy counts. What they have hadn't begun as a friendship, and how they've managed to reach this stage was out of necessity more than anything. They had to get along if they were going to raise the kids together, and out of that came something that surprised them both: they _could_ get along. They could be friends. They were actually a hell of a lot better at it than they ever were at being a couple. It was easy, one of the few things in Ste's life that could ever be called that.

There had been Justin, but he'd fallen into that too - they both had a habit of skiving school, and that's how they'd ended up hanging out, going round to Justin's when he'd known that everyone else would be out of the house. But Justin had moved away years ago, and there had been no one else since. No one else that Ste could play computer games with, or get drunk with, or mess about with. They'd had a laugh, and he'd begun to forget what that felt like.

He knows Warren and Danny aren't expecting him and Brendan to become like that. They just want him to get the rotter onside, to stop the hostility that has existed between them since they'd first met. But even that scares Ste: the idea of having to talk about things which won't antagonise Brendan enough to make him leave. He isn't sure he knows how to be nice, how to be interesting. The people who put up with him - Amy, the kids, Tony - don't exactly have an alternative. He doesn't have someone who _wants_ him to be there. He's not anyone's first choice.

::::::

They're all exhausted. Jacqui's somehow got bits of paper stuck in her ponytail, an annoyance for her but an opportunity for Rhys, a chance for him to get close to her, to prolong a two second job into something that makes both of them blush from the proximity.

Ste didn't even know rotters _could_ blush.

They're filthy; turns out that the town centre is even more unclean that any of them could have guessed, and by the end of the day the sound of buses and cars taking up the high street is drowned out by the sound of their complaints.

Tony tries to keep morale up, tells them how well they've done, how it's over now, but they all know that none of it's over, that they'll have to do this all again soon. Warren's running out of jobs to give them, and the rotation of tasks is becoming evident. Ste hears one of them mutter about going to clean the cinema again, and he hopes as well as they do that they won't. Veronica is all but a distant memory, but he still doesn't fancy picking at the wounds and seeing if they reopen.

The two groups start getting smaller, everyone rushing to get home. Ste knows that some of them have children and partners to get back to. It's unsettling in its normality. They could be at any work place in the world, but they're not. Ste has to remember that they're not.

He trails behind. If anyone were to look at him - properly look at him - then they'd see how his shoelaces don't need tying. How it doesn't take that long to put on a jacket. How he checks his phone once, and then a second time. They'd see that he's stalling.

Tony doesn't ask him if he wants a lift; he must have learnt by now that he doesn't. He waves him goodbye, and everything about the ease of it tells Ste that he still has no idea about what Warren and Danny have planned for him. He knows the essentials, knows that he has to kill Brendan, but all the details, this _befriending_ \- he doesn't have a clue.

It's better this way. Tony wouldn't let him do it, wouldn't agree to leaving him on his own. Don't get involved, that's what he'd said. He's better off out of this.

Ste gives it as much time as he can, and then he starts walking towards his bus stop, sure that Brendan must know that he'll be going there. Sure that Brendan had parked his car along this street in the morning.

::::::

He's waiting for him.

The air feels still, like everything that was once in motion has stopped. He's stopped too, feet glued to the pavement, and he's staring so hard into the front window of the car that he forgets to blink. His vision grows clouded, the colours around him dancing.

Brendan must have sensed his hesitance. He winds down the window, and it's then that Ste sees that he's wearing sunglasses. He doesn't like that he can't see his eyes; he doesn't know how to read him otherwise, and he takes a step towards him as though it'll give him some answers. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't.

Ste doesn't ask for a ride. It'll look suspicious if he does, coming out of nowhere when he's always made his feelings about it clear. And he doesn't know if he wants to; there's a part of him which still feels too proud to buckle to Danny's demands. It's easy for him and Warren, giving out their orders, feeling so big and important. Ste's wanted to fire back at them, ask them if they've been hanging out with any rotters kill them, but they don't have to be friends with them. Ste knows which one feels harder right now.

"I'm going home," Ste says, and he wonders if Brendan can hear it in his voice, the insinuation of _please don't ask me to go home with you._

"Okay." He sounds unconvinced, like he'll believe it when he sees it.

So Ste starts. He starts walking, gets as far as the nearest bus stop before he hears the noise of the car pulling up to the kerb, as close as it can get without coming off the road.

"Something wrong?"

Ste's reaching into the trousers of his uniform, hands moving from pocket to pocket, searching them all one by one.

"Steven?"

Ste twists and turns his body, cranes round to try and see into his back pocket, but he already knows it's not there.

"I've lost my money."

"What money?"

"To get home." He's snapping, can hear the anger in his voice. He's going to have to call Amy now. It's too far to walk, and she's going to have to bring the kids with her.

"Must have forgot it."

"No, I didn't _forget_." He knows he had change left over from lunch. He's sure he'd put it back in his pocket. All he can think is that one of the rotters got hold of it, but he can't go round accusing them. He's been on shaky ground with them since the beginning, and something like this might make him appear even more feckless in their eyes.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride home."

Ste looks at him.

"Bit convenient, isn't it?

"What?"

"You're here waiting for me, and suddenly I've lost my money."

He doesn't mind accusing _this_ rotter.

Brendan laughs, does it in that way of his where Ste feels like he's the butt of the joke.

"You can't blame me for asking."

Brendan does blame him though. He doesn't have to see his eyes to know that. Ste half expects him to drive away, leave him standing in the cloud of the exhaust fumes.

"When am I meant to have taken this money?"

 _I don't know. But that doesn't mean you didn't do it._

"I can walk," is what he says instead. He's being stubborn and he doesn't care.

"It's late."

"I've had worse."

Worse like being out in the early hours on patrol, so disorientated from lack of sleep that he's forgotten where he is, where he's going.

"You'll freeze."

"I've had worse."

Worse like feeling his teeth chatter, the skin of his hands turning blue.

"You don't know what's out there."

"I've had -"

"Get in, Steven."

The car door opens. Brendan sits and waits, his face as blank and as solid as marble. He could be marble for all Ste knows, with how still and quiet he is.

Ste takes a step towards him, hesitates.

"Take your glasses off."

"Why?"

"I don't like not seeing your eyes."

He realises how strange it must sound, but Brendan doesn't question him. For once he follows through; takes the glasses off and places them in the compartment in front of him.

He's not looking at Ste by the time he gets into the car. Ste puts his seatbelt on, wonders if it's a mistake as he's doing it. He doesn't know what's more important, protecting himself if they crash or making sure that he gets out of the car as quickly as possible if the rotter turns on him.

He keeps it fastened.

Brendan's looking out of his window, deliberately avoiding him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Ste waits for him to start the engine, but nothing happens.

"I'd get there quicker if I walked."

He moves, makes on that he's about to get out again, but it's for show - his seatbelt's still on, and he has no intention of opening the door. It's warm in here; Brendan must have put the heating on, and if it's in an attempt to make him stay then it's working. It's inviting.

Brendan clears his throat, sits up straighter, and Ste can see him making a conscious effort, a _pull yourself together_ gesture that he can't figure out. He's missed something, something that he can't help but feel is important, but he doesn't know what it is.

It's only when they've been driving for a couple of minutes that he begins to understand.

They're in silence at first. Ste considers putting the radio on - Brendan's got one, one of those inbuilt systems - but something about it feels out of place, too casual for what this is. He's being driven home, but that doesn't mean they have to act like this is something _friendly_. He connects music to being with Amy and the kids, to putting the radio on when he's doing the dishes or making some dinner on the rare occasions when he's home on time. He doesn't connect it to this.

It gets to him though, the quiet. His thoughts seem louder, and he can't ignore them when there's no buffer in between, nothing to distract himself with.

He risks it. Risks darting glances at Brendan out of the corner of his eye. He needs to know that it's not just him that's finding this uncomfortable, this close proximity without the closeness. He's not imagining the way Brendan grips the wheel, or how hollow his cheekbones are, tension spreading to his face. That's not what makes Ste keep looking; he realises now why Brendan had worn the sunglasses.

His first thought is that Brendan's been crying, but he dismisses it almost immediately. He knows Brendan would never have waited behind for him if that was the case, would never allow Ste to see him like that. His eyes are unmistakably red-rimmed though, and his irises are so watered down that the blue looks less distinguished, like it's been smudged away with tears.

He could not say anything. It wasn't part of Danny's instructions to dig around like this, to ask questions that can't get him anywhere. And he had felt the humiliation from Brendan when he'd removed the glasses, how he had wanted to look away. He doesn't want Ste to pry.

But it hurts to look at him. He feels it as acutely as though it's him it's happening to, and he hasn't forgotten what Brendan told him about how the contact lenses feel. He just hadn't expected it to be like this.

"Are you okay?" He tries to ask it conversationally, but both of them know it's not a standard question for them. It never has been. They've never checked in on each other like this. They're not meant to want the other to be okay.

Brendan grunts, keeps looking at the road, keeps holding on just as tightly to the wheel.

To ignore it or to confront it? Ste knows what's the sensible thing to do, but he tells himself that he's asking for his own safety. He needs to know that Brendan's going to get him home in one piece, and the way his eyes are looking right about now, Ste isn't sure that he even knows where he's taking them.

"Your eyes are red."

He continues to fill in the silence when Brendan doesn't say anything.

"Is it the contacts?"

Still nothing.

"I remember you telling me that they hurt."

He registers a flicker of surprise on Brendan's face before it vanishes. He seems shocked that Ste would remember something like that.

"Like glass, you said."

He imagines the tearing feeling that Brendan must be experiencing. The pain. The constant discomfort. Brendan's words aren't the only thing he's remembering; he's recalling the times he's seen the other rotters in clear distress throughout the day. How had he never thought about it until now? He's seen them closing their eyes, visibly attempt to shake themselves out of it, and plough on with their work like nothing's happened.

He's never asked any of them about it.

Brendan must take the lenses off the minute he gets home. It leaves Ste feeling uneasy, the thought of Cheryl seeing him like that and what she must think, but she'll be used to it, won't she? Unless he hides it even from her, pretending that everything's fine, everything's normal until he goes into his bedroom at the end of the night, cleaning the cover up mousse off where he won't be disturbed, leaving the contact lenses in a case by his bed.

Maybe he should ask Sarah, find out what she does, but it could feel like an intrusion. He's not sure if Amy and Mike would appreciate him digging around in her life like that, and besides - she's nothing like Brendan. He knows that already.

"You okay?"

"Why?" He's aware of how sharply he says it, but again there's that sense that's something's off kilter. This isn't what he and Brendan do, and he's worried that Brendan has somehow heard what he's been thinking about.

"You're quiet."

"So?"

"So, you're never quiet."

Ste doesn't know whether to be insulted or not.

"I'm quiet sometimes." He's defensive about it, as though he's being told off.

"It's not a bad thing. Talking. Being... the way you are." Brendan's still looking at the road ahead, eyes still watering, but his wariness at Ste's earlier question has faded. There's still an edge of uncertainty about what he's saying though; he's kept his voice deliberately soft, and _soft_ isn't something that Brendan is. It feels unnatural. Ste doesn't know what to do with it.

"Isn't it?"

It's the first he's heard of it. He's been told it's a bad thing all his life - by Pauline, by Terry, by his teachers at school, by almost everyone at the Human Volenteer Force, and most recently by Danny Houston. Everyone seems to be trying to mold him, bend him into shape, _their_ shape, and make him into something he's not. He can't be too loud. He can't be too stubborn. He can't be too passionate. He can't be too argumentative. He can't be too anything that doesn't make him fit in with them all.

"No." Brendan swallows. It sounds louder in the silence of the car. Then a beat, then, "I like it."

Ste turns to him. He's been focusing on the road ahead, making sure that Brendan doesn't crash into anything, but he allows his attention to be diverted. He can't have said that. He's sure he can't have.

"You like it?" There's disbelief there, and a strange kind of longing that he doesn't want to give life to. It's just been a while, is all. It's been a while since someone who isn't Amy and the kids - since someone who doesn't feel obliged to love him - has said that they like anything about him.

"I don't mind it."

"You like it." He's not asking this time. He's repeating it back to himself, making it real, because he can sense that Brendan's already backing away from it, stealing it from Ste's grasp.

 _I like it._

"Don't get carried away." He says it with enough of a warning that Ste could lose hope, think that he misinterpreted what felt like a moment of honesty, but he doesn't; he doesn't lose it. He wouldn't believe it if Brendan backtracked now.

There's a moment where neither of them say anything, and then, "Are you?"

"Am I what?" Ste says, coming out of the haze that Brendan's words had created.

"Okay?"

"I'm fine. I was just thinking."

"Thinking what?" Brendan sounds reluctant to ask, like he doesn't entirely want to know, but he can't not.

"Your eyes."

"You were thinking about my eyes? You wouldn't be the first."

"No," Ste says, and he tries to hide the way he's started to colour, is glad that Brendan's still focusing on driving and isn't looking his way. "Stop being daft. I meant the contacts."

"Leave it."

He should. He should leave it. He doesn't know why he isn't.

"You can take them out if you want."

Brendan swerves the car so far to the right that Ste's worried they're going to crash. He's sure they almost drive onto the pavement; it's lucky that the street's virtually deserted or they'd be in danger of hitting someone. Ste attempts to grab hold of the wheel, put them on the right track again, but Brendan's already got it covered, is already back in control: he moves them sharply into the road again, does it with such haste and ease that it's like they were never at risk at all.

Ste gets his breath back and leans back in his seat again, makes sure that his belt is still in place. He'd been right to wear one.

He expects an apology, but he doesn't get one.

"What was that?" He knows what that was. He knows why it happened, but it's like this with Brendan; he has to be the one to encourage him to open up, otherwise he'll never get anything out of him at all.

"It was your fault."

Ste's open mouthed. His " _What?"_ comes out as something horrified.

"You made me do that."

"I didn't make you do anything."

He knows that he shocked Brendan, that what he said made him lose control of the wheel. But it's the utter conviction that's Brendan's using to blame him that unnerves him, that makes him want to fight back. It's not something light hearted, not something teasing, not a childish game where you blame the other person. Brendan means it. He believes that it's Ste's fault.

They're nearly at his flat now. He can imagine Brendan mentally counting down the time, knowing as he does how close they are, that he won't have to prolong this.

"I didn't," Ste repeats, and with no one to back him up his words are starting to sound like a feeble protest, transforming into _I did_ , like he's not far away from admitting that he's the one who's truly to blame. His certainty moments before that it was Brendan's fault is fading. The memory of the event has already been distorted, twisted into something else.

It's important that they don't end the night this way. He can't see Brendan waiting for him again after this, not if he doesn't put things right. But then, he doesn't know why Brendan's ever waited for him. Ste's all too aware of what's in this for him - the chance to get to know Brendan's weaknesses, following through on Danny and Warren's orders, making sure that he can leave his life with the Human Volenteer Force behind - but what he doesn't know is what's in this for Brendan. He's gone through it, all the possibilities and the reasons that could exist, but he can't find anything. If Brendan wanted to attack him or kill him then he would have done it by now. There would be no use in waiting. He can't be lonely, can't simply be wanting to have a friend. For one thing Ste's ten years younger than him, and for another Brendan doesn't _act_ like he wants a friend. The way he speaks to him, the way he behaves, it's as though he's doing everything to make things even more strained between them.

If there's some grand plan, some game that the rotter's playing, that Ste can't see what it is.

Brendan's right, he is being quiet tonight. It's what this is doing to him, all of this. It's messing with his head. He's being told to stay away by some people, that he shouldn't know anything about the rotter, and at the same time he's being made to spend time with him, become, if not a friend, then not an enemy either. He's tired of it all, but there's no way out.

He's sinking in on himself, and he's not able to hide it. He can feel himself slouching in his seat, looking out of the window and tempted to jump out of it, half believing that the wind will carry him someplace better, that the cold air will cleanse him, ridding him of the dirt that he feels covered in. Thick and black is what he imagines it is, a quicksand which he's suffocating under.

He stays in the car when they reach his flat. The engine keeps running, and Ste worries that Amy will hear it and open the door, but there's no movement from inside. He doesn't see the curtain's draw back an inch, or any other sign that she's watching what's going on. She'll be afraid to; despite her curiosity he knows that she's learnt over time not to look.

"Are you going straight home, or..."

"Or," Brendan says, and he's doing it deliberately now, must be. Provoking Ste on purpose, being secretive like he's having fun with it.

"Or what?"

He leaves Ste to fill in the space. _Or I'll be with Carmel_. That's the _or_ that's running through Ste's head.

"I might go out too." There's an edge of defiance, a need to get under Brendan's skin and thoroughly piss him off. "Get out of this." He nods down at his uniform. "Go into town."

He has no intention of going out. He's exhausted, but Brendan doesn't know that. And this is Ste's chance to try to figure out if the rotter's been tailing him. If he'll keep watch tonight until he realises that he's been made a fool of, played with.

"With your millions of friends?"

Ste feels the sting of his words, fires back immediately like he has no choice in the matter - and he doesn't, because if Brendan's going to be vicious then so is he.

"Yeah, and where are all your mates?" He pretends to look for them, looks out of the car window. He knows he's being immature; it feels good. "Are they hiding somewhere? Because I haven't seen them and it's been weeks."

He could dig deeper: talk about how the other rotters all go out of their way to avoid Brendan. How when they're not scared of him, they're busy despising him. How the most physical contact he's had with them was the fight with Malachy. Even the undead want to steer clear, like he's got something that's catching.

He could say it all if he wanted to. And he would; any other time he would. Brendan must have caught him on a good day.

"Anyway, I don't want friends." A lie, and the rotter sees through it.

"You're lonely."

Somewhere there's a protest waiting to be hurled, an argument waiting to be formed, but it's not coming.

"No I'm not."

Is that his voice that sounds so weak and small?

Brendan's lack of a reply is the most insulting thing of all. A display of confidence in what he's said. A confirmation that he knows he's right. Ste wishes the rotter would say something, give him a reason to fight back.

He rolls down the window. It's cold out and there's nothing to look at - never is anything in this part of town that's worth seeing - but he leans his chin against the window ledge, feels the breeze on his skin. He tries to forget who's sitting next to him, but he can't. Even if he closed his eyes he'd be able to feel him there; not so much hear him breathing but feel the tension coming off him, the energy and concentration it takes to be in control.

He can't stay in this car forever. Not for Warren, not for Danny, and not for Brendan. He'll start getting suspicious if he isn't already.

"Night then." He still hasn't turned back to face him. He doesn't mean to slam the car door, doesn't want to come across like he's sulking, but he does it anyway (he blames the wind), and as he walks to the front door of the flat he expects to hear the sound of Brendan leaving him.

When he chances a look back the car's still there, stationary.

He waves Brendan off, let's him know that it's okay to leave him, that he wants him to. He thought he would have got the message: they're done. They're done for tonight. That's it.

He still isn't moving.

Ste runs back to the car, makes sure Brendan can hear him sigh.

"What are you doing?" He says it as long-sufferingly as he can, like it's been a long day (it has) and like the last thing he needs is more of Brendan's shit to deal with (it is.)

"People think they're safe when they're at their door. You want to know the amount of people in this town who've been attacked before they even get inside?"

It's not a statistic Ste needs to know. He has enough trouble sleeping at night as it is.

"How do you know? You've only been here five minutes."

"I do my research."

"You can't have, otherwise you'd never have come here."

Brendan shrugs, gives Ste a look like he's got him there.

"Fine," Ste says, and it's his turn to admit defeat. "Watch me then."

He goes back towards the door, feeling out of place now that he knows Brendan's watching him, that he won't stop until he gets inside. He's tempted to actually go out tonight just to see if Brendan does follow him - surely he will, if he's acting concerned about him getting inside his flat safely? If it's not just for show then he'll follow him then too, be his shadow all night like Ste was with him at the club.

The thought makes him shiver.

He's got his key out, has got it half way to the lock when he stops and goes back to the car. He can see Brendan frowning at him, doesn't seem to know whether to look curious or frustrated, and Ste doesn't blame him; he doesn't know what he's doing either.

"What do you mean, lonely?"

"What?" Brendan stares up at him. It's strange to be on this level, taller than the rotter, speaking down to him. It's not something Ste's used to.

"You said I'm lonely. Why?"

It's making him paranoid. He's not, is he? He's not _lonely_. Sometimes he's alone - in the mornings maybe, on the rare few occasions when he's granted a lie-in by Warren, and Amy's gone out with the kids before he's had a chance to wake up. Or when he gets home late and it's pitch black, and he knows there are three sleeping people in the house, but as far as the silence and the darkness is concerned, there might as well be none. Or when he's been on patrol, and the other person he's with has gone off course, and for a few minutes - although it feels a lot longer - it's just him and whatever could be out there waiting, unseen. Then he's alone.

But lonely?

He doesn't like the word. It feels like a judgement, like Brendan's using it to goad him, even if it doesn't seem like it; even if the way he's looking at him is free from superiority or pity.

Brendan doesn't say anything. It looks like he's leaving him to work it out, but Ste doesn't know how. The rotter's planted the thought in his head and now he can't get it out.

"Takes one to know one, right?" Ste's smiling as he says it; not that he feels like smiling, but if he acts like this entire conversation is a joke then maybe he can make it one. The breeze on his skin makes his smile feel frozen in place, until it begins to be so forced that it's uncomfortable.

Brendan turns away from him as he winds up the window that Ste had been leaning out of. Ste doesn't know whether that's it, whether he should start walking away, but it feels unfinished.

When Brendan turns back to face him his eyes are still red. A majority of the mousse has faded from his face, but it's in patches. It gives the rotter a startling look, half monster and half human.

"Yeah," he says. "Takes one to know one," and he drives away.


	19. Chapter 19

It's the first day of warmth that they've had in a long time, and Ste's spending it in a dark and dank basement, the light from the small bulb looking like it's on its last legs.

He's sweating through his shirt. He's got a bottle of water in his bag but he doesn't dare move to get it out. He's never been told implicitly, but he guesses he'd have to ask permission for that.

He's talkative today, a hatred of Danny's, but he hopes that ultimately it'll work in his favour: he'll either tell him everything he needs to know so he can leave here as soon as possible, or he'll irritate Danny enough that he'll want him out of his sight.

Of course he's considered the third option too, that Danny will keep him quiet using other means.

He seems to be pleasing him today though, or at the very least not spectacularly pissing him off, as is his usual way. Danny's almost encouraging as he asks him to keep talking.

"Then I went home." He's reached the end of his story, and this is where he gets nervous: he's got nothing left now, and without a guide of where to go, what to say, he's floundering.

"Did you plan to meet again?"

"No, but we see each other at work, don't we? I'm seeing him today." For all that's thrown at him - that he's stupid, that he knows nothing - Danny and Warren don't half ask some daft questions.

"But outside of work."

"We haven't planned a trip to the cinema yet, no."

"Very funny, Hay." Still it doesn't seem to deter him; he must be in a good mood. "Excellent."

Ste doesn't see what's _excellent_ about what had happened last night. He'd almost made Brendan crash his car, and then he'd been told that he had no friends. _Lonely._ It had been a failure from start to finish, although he can see why Danny sees it differently: Ste had left out most of the truth.

He'd known when he'd come to Warren's house that he would invent a fabrication, something that would keep them both happy for at least a few days. It had to be like that - there was no possible way that he could have told the story as it had really been, with him telling Brendan that he could take his contact lenses out. The whole reason Brendan had been locked up by Warren in the first place was because of that. He and Danny would laugh him out of the room - or basement, as it may be - if he told them that he, a Human Volenteer Force member, had wanted a rotter to be outside without their disguises. They'd make sure that the story would spread around the village, and his entire reputation would be destroyed forever.

He couldn't tell them the rest either. The things they'd talked about. Not because of his job this time, but because he just didn't want them to know. It felt private, not something that they would understand. He wouldn't even tell Amy. He wouldn't tell anyone.

So, the fabricated tale: Brendan was waiting for him (truth.) He gave him a lift home (truth.) They talked about things, about the community work, about how Brendan was getting on in his group, about how he was liking it here compared to Belfast.

He was sure that Warren and Danny wouldn't believe him. There was no way that Brendan would ever lower himself to make small talk, to spend his hours outside of work talking about work. And he didn't get on with his group, so why would he want to talk about them? Anyone who knew Brendan would know that Ste was lying, which proved to him that whatever problems Danny had with him, he still didn't know Brendan at all.

They'd brought it, lapped it up like Ste was giving them gold dust. He'd watched as they'd looked at each other like they were congratulating themselves, one step away from patting themselves on the back, _job fucking well done._ He can't wait to laugh at them when he gets out of here; he can already feel it bubbling up inside him.

"He's an idiot." Ste thinks Danny's talking about him, and he's about to argue back even though he knows he shouldn't. "Fucking idiot."

"I always knew he was stupid," Warren says. "First time I met him. Didn't I say that to you, Ste?"

He's not sure that Warren would go as far as asking him his thoughts on his own stupidity. Brendan. They must mean Brendan.

"Yeah," he says, although he can't remember Warren ever telling him that. But it makes him look good in front of Danny, and that's all that Warren cares about.

They both start laughing, and it makes it all the more obvious that Ste's the only one who isn't. Warren looks at him, but Ste doesn't join in.

"Good work, Hay." Danny puts a hand on his shoulder, does it so hard that Ste's body shakes. It feels like he's being welded into the chair. "I want to hear more progress next time, yeah?"

"What do you mean, more progress? What am I meant to do?"

Danny releases him and waves him out of his seat, question ignored. He's done with him.

"Come on, Ste," Warren says, already heading upstairs. "Let's go."

Ste follows him. He expects Warren to leave him to make his own way out like he usually does, but he lingers outside the house, closing the door behind them.

"Make sure you keep talking to the rotter. If you see it alone then go up to it, start a conversation." He must sense that Ste's about to interrupt him, because he gets in there first. "I don't care what it's about. Talk about its bloody moustache for all I care. Just keep it on side. Make it think that you care."

"And this is Danny talking, yeah? Because he seems to be in charge here, and -"

"In charge?" Warren shakes his head at him, gives out a bark of a laugh. "We're both in charge here. My orders are his orders."

"Right." Again Ste fights the urge to laugh. This display of bravado is wearing thin, and none of it's believable. Warren's being beat down by someone who's higher up than him, and it shows. "Can I go now?"

Warren sizes him up, frowning.

"Are you getting smart with me?"

"No." He's still far too close to the house and Danny for his liking, and Warren's not letting him put any distance between them. "I've got things to do, haven't I?"

"Like what?" Warren says, as though all Ste's life consists of is waiting around for these meetings.

"Like work."

"I told Tony you were going to be late."

"What will I say when he asks me why? I thought that was the whole point of meeting in the evenings."

"Some things can't wait."

Ste doesn't see why it had been so urgent; all he had to report is a car ride.

"That's safe, is it? Leaving Tony with two groups of rotters."

"He can handle it," Warren dismisses. Ste's a secondary thought to him now. He's staring back towards the house, and Ste wonders if he's wary of Danny being there by himself, touching things that aren't his, finding something that he shouldn't. "Go on then."

He's being told to run along like a kid who's getting in the way.

Ste doesn't need telling twice. He's out of there, walking so fast that the house is out of sight by the time he looks back.

::::::

He's over an hour late. They're in a new location today - Warren must have finally used his imagination - and it's not what Ste expected. He has to double check the address, and when he goes in he's sure he's going to find it's all a mistake, that there'll be no one there.

It's a bowling alley. He doesn't know why he's surprised, but he is. It's the kind of place he would take Leah and Lucas to if they could afford it, another thing that's on his checklist when he makes enough money, whenever that may be. He knows they'd love it, that they'd be excited over the things that kids get excited about, that seem lost when you become an adult: the shoes and how they'd squeak across the floor, and who would win on the score table, and who would get to use their favourite coloured bowling ball. It would never occur to them that rotters would be here too.

He finds them though; they're pretty hard to miss. It's quiet during the weekdays, especially as it's still the morning, but even if the place was crowded Ste knows that he'd spot them easily enough. Perhaps it's the discomfort more than the uniforms and the lack of humanity that even the cover up mousse and contacts fail to hide. It's weeks into the community work now, but still the rotters look like they don't quite know what they're doing there. They don't fit in to their surroundings, and it's so evident that for a moment Ste stands back and just watches them. He realises that he feels sorry for them.

He shakes himself out of it, goes to join them.

Jacqui tuts at him.

"Late. Setting a bad example."

It takes Ste a minute for it to sink in that she's messing with him. It's the most playful thing she's ever said to him, but somehow his _I had a meeting_ comes out blunt, harsher than he'd like. He watches as she turns away, the lightness that had been there gone.

This is what he had worried about: he doesn't know how to talk to people. To anyone - the alive or the undead.

He looks around, then scans the room a second time when he doesn't find what he's looking for.

"Alright, mate?" Tony's broken away from the others. Ste knows he must want to know why he was late, what was so important with Warren that it couldn't be put off, but he's not giving anything away. He's distracted.

"Where's Brendan?"

"Toilets."

"You let him go off on his own?" Ste can see the sign for the bathroom now. It's far enough away for him to start to panic.

"Relax. He's not going to run off, is he?"

"How do you know?"

If anyone's in danger of doing it then it'll be Brendan. Ste wouldn't be surprised if he'd already legged it out of the window.

"Warren would haul him right back here. Speaking of Warren, what did you -"

"See you in a bit. I'm just gonna..." Ste leaves him, heading to the toilets. He can hear Tony calling after him but he doesn't stop. He doesn't like this; doesn't like thinking of Brendan going off on his own. He wouldn't pay too much attention if it was any of the others, but Brendan's a risk. The biggest risk.

He waits outside, leaning against the wall. The rotters don't have much to do; they're cleaning away some trays that have been left behind, and some litter from when people have ordered chips and burgers. There's a group of kids playing a few lanes down who look like they're here on a school trip. Ste sees who he guesses to be a teacher throwing glances their way, and when one of the rotters - a woman with kids, Ste remembers Tony telling him - waves at one of the children, the teacher grabs the child, snatching them away like they're in danger of being contaminated. The rotter shrinks back, eyes to the floor and picking up litter like nothing had ever happened.

Would he do the same in their position? If he had the money to come here, would he do everything he could to keep Leah and Lucas away from the rotters? He can't think clearly now; he can barely remember the _before_ , the time when the only contact he had with rotters was when they turned rabid and he had to kill them. His visits to Sarah and Mike had always been limited, and Sarah had acted so normal, had looked so normal, and Ste had been able to convince himself that she wasn't like all the others. That maybe they'd got it wrong and she was human after all.

He doesn't know what he would have done.

He drums his fingers against the wall, wondering how long it's been. Maybe it feels longer in his head, like he's been waiting here forever for Brendan to come out.

Five minutes pass. He watches the clock attached to the wall, feels time move more slowly, but he can't look away. There's no way he can hear it from where he is, but with every tick he could swear that the sound registers somewhere in his body, _tick tick tick_ , until ten minutes have passed, and then fifteen. Tony's too busy taking care of both of the groups to look for him, and Ste feels a pang of guilt. He's meant to be over there looking after them, but instead he's chasing after Brendan again.

What is the rotter even doing? Tony's right, it's doubtful that he's run away. He would have done it weeks ago if that was his intention. There's only one other thing that Ste can think of. Logic tells him that it's not likely, but he's got an irrational instinct that it is. Brendan must not be alone. He must have gone in there with someone. It's _her_. It's Carmel. It must be.

He feels more angry with the rotter than ever; angrier than when Brendan had called him lonely, or when he'd told him that he knew that he couldn't read and write like everyone else. Angrier than when he'd told Ste that he knew he'd been following him the whole time at the club, or when he'd made him stay for a drink, or when he'd cornered him in the cage when they'd first met, twisting his hands behind his back until he'd left marks. Brendan's playing him for a fool; offering him lifts home like he's not the monster that everyone thinks he is, and then sneaking off the first chance he gets with a girl who Ste ought to be protecting.

Fuck that. No more waiting.

Ste barges into a man leaving the bathroom, earning him a _watch it_ which he promptly ignores. There's another guy inside washing his hands, and only one stall is occupied. So he's taken her into there, has he? The two of them together, locked in a cubicle. Classy.

The man washing his hands looks at Ste, noticing his stillness. Ste's sure he'd be alarmed if it wasn't for him quickly taking in the HVF uniform he wears. He nods over to him like they know each other, like they're friends.

Ste thinks the man will go, but he seems to be taking his time at the dryer. Even Ste's exaggerated sigh doesn't get him moving; he must be particularly dense.

Then, like a fan meeting their favourite celebrity at long last, the man approaches Ste with an air of awe. He must be twice his age, but he looks at him like he doesn't consider himself worthy to be in his presence.

"So nice to meet you," he says, and he offers a hand.

Ste stares down at it, dumbstruck.

He looks behind the man at the closed stall. He'd take Brendan coming out and rescuing him - Carmel by his side, if that's what it takes - over this.

It doesn't happen.

The man's still holding out his hand and Ste shakes it blindly, hardly aware of what he's doing.

"You too," he says, feeling like he's agreeing to something against his will. It's not nice to meet him. He doesn't even know what this is.

Still the man continues talking. It's as though a switch been flicked, and he can't seem to stop now.

"I'm honoured. So honoured." He doesn't let go of his hand, shakes it with a vigor that has Ste feeling like his arm is being pulled from its socket. "What you've done for us has been amazing." He keeps going, and the word _honour_ is bandied about again and again, amongst _so special_ and _can't believe I'm meeting you at last._

Ste's certain now that he's got the wrong guy.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" He's trying to be polite about it, trying to go about it the right way instead of doing what he wants to do, which is demand that the man step back and tell him what he's done that's so _amazing_.

The man laughs like he's said something funny.

"No, but I know you. You're in the Human Volenteer Force, aren't you?"

 _I'm wearing the uniform, mate, so yeah, what do you think?_

Ste bites his tongue.

"What gave it away?"

The man laughs again, uproariously this time. Maybe Ste's funnier than he thinks he is.

Ste looks towards the stall again. It's quiet, no movement or sound. Is Brendan pressing Carmel against the wall, kissing her to get her to shut up? Or is he already inside her, has her bent against the door, a finger pressed to her lips so she won't give them away?

He'll be laughing at this, at this conversation. At Ste being hero worshipped when Brendan thinks his entire life's a sham.

"Look, thanks for... but I should really be..." He gestures to the toilet, losing his patience now.

"Of course. Can I just say though - you're doing an excellent job."

Ste squirms. He hates this. He hasn't earned it. He hasn't done anything.

"If it wasn't for you they'd have taken over." The man looks theatrically over his shoulder, checking that no one's there, and then lowers his voice. "The rotters."

Ste waits, expecting a story about how the man's son or daughter was killed during The Rising; his wife, maybe. It doesn't come.

"I hope you wipe them out completely." He's not whispering now. "I can smell them, can't you?" He wrinkles his nose. "The stench of them."

"Yeah," Ste says, although when he thinks about Brendan, all he can ever smell is his aftershave. "Ta, but I really need to..." He doesn't wait this time, heading into a stall before the man can call him back or say anything else. He locks the door, not daring to come out again until he hears the sound of footsteps and silence. Then he draws the bolt back, making his way outside.

The other stall's still locked.

He knocks, tentatively at first but harder when no one answers.

"Brendan?"

He hammers, fists pounding against the door.

"Everyone's waiting for you."

A lie: he's sure the rest of the group are relieved that Brendan isn't around to make them feel uncomfortable.

He's about to knock again, is considering putting the toilet seat down and climbing over to Brendan's stall when the door opens.

"Took you long enough," Ste says, but he's barely concentrating on what he's saying; he's too busy trying to look into the stall and see where Carmel is.

Brendan walks out. The door shuts behind him and Ste opens it, peers through. He checks once, checks again, and another time for good measure, half believing that this time he'll find Carmel hiding away in the corner. He's convinced he's being played with in some way, that Brendan's concealed her, but if he looks any longer then the rotter will start to get suspicious.

Brendan's in front of the mirrors, looking at his reflection as his washes his hands. No matter how many times he cleans them there's still that ring of dirt around his fingernails, unable to be scrubbed away.

"What were you doing in here?"

"Taking a piss. What do you think?"

"You were here for at least fifteen minutes." Ste realises how strange he must sound, keeping exact tabs on him. His added "I think" doesn't sound convincing.

Brendan shakes his head, is clearly not going to engage with the line of questioning. Ste doesn't blame him. He dries his hands off but still doesn't leave the mirror.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." It sounds like he's speaking through gritted teeth, and after a moment he closes his eyes. "Leave please." His _please_ sounds like a threat.

"No." Ste steps closer to him. Brendan's still closing his eyes. "It's the contacts again, isn't it?" Something clicks into place. "Is that why you were in here so long? Were you trying to take them out?"

He almost puts a hand on Brendan's shoulder to make him look at him.

"Just tell me."

"It's just a bit..."

"Sore?"

"Mm."

It feels like an achievement of sorts to hear Brendan say it. Honesty, at last.

"Come here." This time Ste does put a hand on his shoulder, and Brendan spins round from the shock of it, his eyes open and startled. Ste flinches at the sudden movement, waiting for Brendan to hit out, but he does nothing. "Don't be such a baby." He wonders if it sounds harsh, but that's not how he means it. He's trying to make it less than it is, is all. Make it into something that can be solved, the pain taken away easily.

His eyes are inflamed, even more so than they'd been last night in the car. It makes Ste flinch, makes him feel like he's the one who's hurting.

"I don't get it. The others aren't like this. I know the contacts aren't comfortable, but..." He hasn't seen the rest of the rotters hiding away in bathrooms.

"I need new ones."

"What?"

"Every month we're meant to get new ones."

"How old are yours?"

Brendan shrugs like it's not important.

"How old?" Ste repeats, insistent.

"Couple of months."

"Couple of months?"

"I got new ones in Belfast."

"That was ages ago." Ste can hear how aghast he sounds, and he lowers it down a notch. "Why didn't you get new ones here?"

"Too busy working."

It's an easy dig, and Ste's not buying it.

"No, don't be saying that. You have just as much time off as the others, and they're not in here crying, are they?"

"I'm not _crying_." Brendan sounds disgusted by the thought.

"Nearly crying then."

"I'm not -"

"Are they expensive? Is that it?" Ste realises he should know about this stuff, but he doesn't.

"No."

"Then what is it? Where do you get them from?"

Brendan knows. He knows and he's not telling him.

"Where, Brendan? You may as well tell me. I'll find out anyway, won't I?"

It seems to do the trick.

"A nurse. One of those _partially deceased_ mollycoddlers."

"Thought you'd like them. They're on your side, aren't they?"

Brendan laughs in derision.

"Sure."

"Are you saying they're bad? Is that why you don't want to go to them?"

"It doesn't matter." He tries to move past Ste, to get out of the bathroom, but Ste blocks his path. For once Brendan doesn't try to push him aside.

"It does though, doesn't it? It does matter. You need to work."

"So?"

"So, you won't be able to do much if you can't even see, will you?" Ste's proud of his point, thinking how obvious it sounds, how practical. "You need to get it sorted."

"I will."

He's lying, dismissing him.

"No, I mean it."

"So do I."

Ste shakes his head.

"I don't believe you."

"That's your problem."

Ste's not letting him leave. Not like this.

"We're going tonight. After work. We're going to get you new contacts." He nods, satisfied, his mind made up. "We're going."

Brendan looks too stunned to say anything, but then he does.

"We?"

"We."

Ste doesn't let him talk his way out of it.

"Tony will be waiting for us."

He loves having the final word.

:::::::

Ste watches Brendan carefully for the rest of the day. The rotter's more irritable than usual, snapping at Malachy when he gets in his way, trying to intimidate some of the others when he sees them talking about him behind his back. There's a difference now though: Ste knows why he's doing it. He finds himself making allowances for him, not warning him to cut it out when usually he would. He trusts Brendan not to take it further.

He has other problems to think about. Tony still wants to know what the meeting with Warren was about. It would be entertaining in other circumstances, watching as Tony tries to be subtle in his attempts at getting information out of him. He doesn't press too hard at first, just brings it up like it doesn't matter, but when he doesn't get anything out of him he gives up on the act entirely.

"Is there something I need to know about?"

They're sitting down at one of the empty tables, keeping an eye on their groups. Ste sees Brendan blink rapidly a few times, and he checks the clock. There's still hours to go until he can get Brendan new contacts. Hours more of knowing that he's in pain.

"Ste?"

"What?"

"Warren. Has he done something?"

"You mean besides what he always does?"

"Something new. Something you don't want to tell me about. To do with..." Tony lowers his voice, whispering. "Brendan."

Ste drags his eyes away from the rotter.

"It's still the same." It's getting easier to lie, and to look at someone as he does it. "He just wanted to remind me, is all. You know Warren. He's just trying to scare me."

"Is it working?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look it."

He doesn't need to be told that; he sees it every day, the constant worry etched on his face, the now continuous dark circles around his eyes, the way it seems to be an effort to smile.

"I will be," he corrects, because even if he's not certain of it, it's more of a sure thing than him being fine now. There's hope for it.

He swiftly changes the subject, knows how Tony's like a dog with a bone when he gets going. "We expecting any visitors today?"

"What do you mean?"

Ste bends down, picks up a stray crisp packet that's trapped beneath his chair and hands it to Jacqui, who'd just been about to bend down for it. He thinks he sees her smile, but he can't be sure. He makes sure there's some distance between them when he speaks again.

"Carmel."

"Don't worry, I ran into her this morning before I came here. She's busy all day. She tried to give Brady the lunch she'd made, but he didn't take it."

"Didn't take it?"

"I felt bad for the girl." Tony winces like he's recalling an embarrassing memory. "Guess he's worried after how you acted the last time."

"All I said was that it's not right. We all eat together, and if Brendan starts getting special treatment then they'll think they all can. We'll have all of their bloody families in here next, handing out sandwiches and drinks, and what'll Warren say then? It's meant to be work, not a party." He waits for Tony to back up him. He needs the support, but all he gets is a half hearted _I suppose._ "And I'm thinking of her, aren't I. She's human, she shouldn't be... there are loads of blokes out there who would fancy her. What does she need to go after a rotter for?

"Maybe she likes him."

Ste laughs.

"I know it sounds impossible, but..."

"It is. It is impossible. We're doing this for her own good, yeah?"

It doesn't stop him from keeping an eye out when they break for lunch. It doesn't stop him from looking up every time the door opens, heart in his mouth whenever a head of blond hair walks through.

When he finally realises that she's not coming, he smiles properly for the first time that day.

::::::

He's had enough time to get cold feet. He tells himself that it's exactly the same as yesterday, when he knew that there was every possibility that Brendan would drive him home. He'd felt sick then as he feels sick now, but it had passed. _This will too_. The hard part is, he doesn't believe it.

He's not sure this is what Danny and Warren had in mind. He could spin it into something else, tell them that he's trying to make sure that Brendan wears his contacts. It could sound like a good thing, like he's going above and beyond to make sure that Brendan doesn't break any rules. But then, isn't that what they'd wanted? For Brendan to fuck up, to give everyone a reason to hate him and be happier if he was gone?

All he knows is what his gut's telling him. He can't have Brendan spending every day in the bathroom, his eyes hurting so much that he refuses to come out. And this way Ste gets to spend time with him, get him onside. It's killing two birds with one stone.

Never mind if _he's_ going to go - he's expecting Brendan to do a runner and leave him standing there waiting for him, looking like an idiot. It's what Ste fears as he looks around the bowling alley after they've finished for the day, unable to see where the rotter is.

He's been played.

He heads home, wondering how he could be so stupid. Of course Brendan wouldn't come. He was never going to come. He'd fed him lies to get him to back off, and it had worked. Ste had believed it because he'd wanted to.

He's heading to the bus stop when he hears a noise, a beeping sound which gradually gets louder. It's little more than something in the background at first, not distinctive enough when surrounded by the sound of pedestrians and traffic, but then it seems to be following him, crowding everything else out.

He hears the engine of the car, and it's something familiar now. He doesn't know if it's possible for a car to have its own sound, something that Ste could identify a mile off, but he knows who it is before he turns.

Relief hits him sharply. He hasn't been played. He's not been stood up. Brendan's here, real, solid, and in front of him.

"Why didn't you wait? Brendan says, and Ste could laugh at his words, could throw them back at Brendan with an accusation of his own.

"You were waiting?" His voice has a breathless quality to it. He realises he sounds upset, that he hasn't shaken off the thought that Brendan had lied to him. He tries to steady himself. "Where?"

"Just outside." Brendan points it out to him, a spot right in front of the bowling alley. Ste had walked straight past it, not looking at it once. He'd been too angry to see anything.

"Sorry," Ste says, and then, because he can't believe he's said it, he covers it with, "Didn't notice." He thinks it unsettles the rotter, puts him back in his place after the apology. Brendan strikes Ste as someone who would hate - _hate_ \- for anyone to think he's invisible.

There's a silence between them, and Ste wonders if Brendan's regretting waiting and agreeing to come with him. He imagines Brendan driving off and leaving him in a swirl of car fumes.

"Want to get in?"

Ste hesitates. He's sure that people are looking at them. There are people at the bus stop and he sees one or two glancing in their direction. The fact that he's wearing his uniform only seems to make them more curious; they must be wondering why a Human Volenteer Force member would be talking so civilly with a rotter.

He gets in before anyone can start anything. He's seen it before, seen what some people do to humans who talk to rotters like this.

"Go on, drive." He hopes Brendan can't hear just how urgent he is. He lowers himself down in the seat, kidding himself that he can't be seen.

They radio's playing; something old, something that Ste doesn't recognise. He nearly asks Brendan if it was popular when he was alive, but he thinks better of it. He doesn't mind it anyway. It's nice having something to listen to, and with the speed at which Brendan's driving he can pretend that they're not in the centre of town. That they're somewhere else entirely - outside of England, even - and there's only open road stretching ahead of them. Just for a moment he imagines it, thinks about how it would be.

The song changes to something else, and Ste's daydreams shatter with it.

"Do you know where you're going?"

"Of course." Brendan looks insulted, as though Ste's accused him of leading him astray.

"You said you'd got contacts in Belfast the last time though."

"I looked up the address."

"Okay." Ste fiddles with his seatbelt; it feels too tight all of a sudden. "What's it like?"

"How do I know? I told you, I've never been before."

"Yeah, but they're probably all the same, aren't they?"

They'd all had to watch video footage as part of their training for the HVF. The video had glossed over anything that could paint the rotters in a better light, and Ste guesses that had included all the trips they have to make to nurses and specialists. The footage had only briefly shown one of these places - a centre designed to hand out contacts and cover up mousse to rotters - and then moved on to the next piece of propaganda.

Ste's surprised he can even recall that small detail now.

"Don't know." Brendan's quiet. There's a nervousness about him now. Ste can see that he's thinking about it, about being back in one of those places again. It must have seemed distant before, something he agreed to without considering the reality of it, but he can't hide from it now that they're nearly there.

"How was your day?"

There's only the hum of the radio for a minute, and then the sound of Brendan shifting in his seat.

"What?" He's gripping the steering wheel tightly again, just like he's done so many times before when they've been in this car. Ste's surprised he hasn't managed to tear it out of its holding yet.

He knows what made him say it. It was the lie catching up with him, the lie he told to Danny about what he and Brendan had talked about. The small talk. The casualness of it. This is what people do; they ask about each other's days.

But he and Brendan have never done this before.

"Why are you asking me that?"

Brendan's full blown paranoid now, and Ste can see him darting glances at him from the mirror in front of them, trying to work out what's going on.

"It's just a question." He laughs, but he knows it's not just a question. Not with them. "You don't have to be so..."

He can't settle on a word.

He can hear Brendan swearing, and then he stops the car.

"Get out."

"What?" Ste sinks down further in his seat, scared but determined not to move. Brendan's not throwing him out and leaving him to make his own way back. No way.

"Get out. We're here."

Ste stares around, taken aback. They've stopped outside a small house, indistinct with its faded brown bricks and the white paint which looks like it could use a new coat. It looks like every other house in the street.

"Here?"

"This is the address."

He's about to ask Brendan just how carefully he'd looked up the place, but he'd already been pushing his luck with asking about his day like that's something that's normal for them. He doesn't question it; he gets out of the car, continuing to look around and wondering how a place like this can look so unremarkable. He thought it would have queues of rotters lined around the street, or a group of them constantly entering and coming out, but it's quiet. Peaceful.

They slowly walk up to the front door. Ste doesn't know whether he should knock, and he decides to let Brendan do it. This is to do with him. It may have been Ste's idea to come here, but the rest is all Brendan: his life. In his control. It feels like a violation to take that away from him.

The irony isn't lost on him that soon the thing that'll be taken away _is_ his life.

A woman opens the door. She's in her mid forties, Ste would guess, and she's wearing a white uniform, pristine. When she sees them she smiles. _Beams_.

"What can I help you with?" She sounds like she means it, like she really wants to help. She's so starkly different from the doctors at the treatment centre that Ste can't believe they exist in the same universe. He looks at Brendan, wonders if she doesn't know what he is, but she must do. She deals with his kind all the time, and even the mousse and contacts can't hide it. This display of kindness can't be because she thinks they're both human.

"I'm here to get new contacts." Brendan's blunt, to the point, but the woman doesn't look offended.

"Sure. Come in, I'll get them right away."

Ste doesn't understand how anyone can be this bright, this cheerful. Doesn't she get tired of it, tired of dealing with rotters day in, day out?

He stands back. Brendan won't want him there. He can already tell that he'll find it humiliating, watching Ste witness what he has to deal with, the ways in which he needs to disguise himself. If he needs to put the new contacts in right away then he'll need to take the old ones out, and Ste will be able to see his eyes as they really are.

But he still remembers the first time he'd ever seen Brendan with his contact lenses on. The way Brendan hadn't been able to look at him. The shame that had been there, so acute that Ste felt like it was crushing him too. Brendan isn't embarrassed by being seen as his true self. He's embarrassed by this charade.

The woman notices that he's not making a move to go into the house. She doesn't draw attention to his uniform, to how strange it must be to see someone like him here.

"Your friend can come in too if he wants," she says, directing her words towards Brendan.

Ste waits for the sting of his reply, for the rejection. He doesn't know why it feels like it'll hurt; he doesn't particularly want to come inside. It feels safer out here. He'd rather not know what it's like, what he's been putting off for all these years.

Brendan looks at him for what feels like a long time.

"Come in if you like."

"I don't have to."

Brendan holds the door open for him.

"I want you to," he says, and he leaves the door for Ste to close it behind them.


	20. Chapter 20

They walk down a narrow hallway that's at least half the size of the one at the treatment centre. Ste had expected something similar; a clinical feeling to the building, with spacious corridors and white walls, and doctors and nurses coming out of every room. The reality is different: they could be in a house. The rooms he passes don't look a world away from what he'd seen at Brendan and Cheryl's flat, and the walls aren't starkly pale but red; a muted red, warm.

He sees furniture - an armchair that looks like it's long since had its day. Unlike the treatment centre, with its artificial lights which can strain your eyes if you spend more than a few hours there, the place they're in now has natural light. It floods the hallway, illuminating Brendan. When Ste looks at him everything seems sharper - the plains of his face, the colour of the contact lenses, and the slight lines underneath his eyes. He wonders if the light's doing the same to him, showing up the slightness of his body and the dark circles which give away how little sleep he's been having. He shies away from the brightness, has his head down and lets Brendan lead the way.

The woman who let them in is chattering away. If she notices that neither of them are saying much then it doesn't seem to bother her; she's offering them tea and biscuits, and Ste almost chokes a laugh at it, thinks that that's the reaction he's meant to have. Turns out it's not; turns out she's being serious.

"Coffee," Brendan says, and Ste asks for the same.

"Sit down and I'll bring it over to you."

She nods to a table that Ste hadn't even noticed was there, and three chairs that are gathered round it. It's almost like she'd been expecting them, although Ste knows that can't be it, know that she must do this a lot. Answering the door to rotters and their friends is something that's second nature to her now. But she must know that he's not a friend. He can't hide who he really is, not when he's in his uniform.

They wait. The sound of the kettle boiling and the clinking of a spoon against china fills the room, only drawing attention to the fact that they're not saying anything. The woman seems happy enough though; she's humming something under her breath, and it's not in a show of nervousness like Ste would have expected. She's actually _okay_ with this.

"Where have you come from?"

It takes a moment for them to both register that they're being spoken to. Ste watches as Brendan shakes a little, and then physically pulls himself together right in front of Ste's eyes.

"Not far," Brendan says.

Vague - deliberately - but the woman doesn't take offense.

"Good. You'd be amazed how far some people have to travel to get here."

"Why? Don't they have these..." Ste says, not knowing what to call them. He quickly tries to cover it up and hopes Brendan doesn't notice. "Can't they go to places in their area?"

"They used to, love. But with the cuts, and..." For the first time the smile fades from her face. "Well, you know how it is."

Ste nods, pretending that he knows exactly how it is. Pretending that he has a clue. He wasn't even aware that there were any cuts.

Her smile's returned again, and she brings their coffees over to them. It's too hot to drink much but Ste can already tell it's good; she must have a lot of practice.

"Ta."

The woman raises her mug like they're making a toast with champagne, holds it in mid-air. There's a moment when Ste's not quite sure what Brendan's going to do, but then he watches as the rotter clinks his mug against her own. Ste joins in, feeling slightly foolish, slightly unnerved. He's still not used to seeing people treat Brendan like this. This is acceptance. This is giving him a place.

"Biscuits?" She offers them the plate she's brought to the table with her. Ste's about to say yes when Brendan shakes his head. He knows Brendan wants this over with as soon as possible. For all the rotter's talk of getting new contact lenses before, it's clear that he's never been somewhere like this. He looks like he's wondering how they got here, how they're sitting drinking coffee with a woman who's just called Ste _love_.

He hears the woman gasp, and some of his coffee spills from the sudden shock of it. He tries not to draw attention to it, mopping it up as discreetly as possible with his sleeve.

"Sorry, where are my manners? I just realised that I didn't introduce myself." She shakes her head, laughs and doesn't seem to care that she's the only one doing so. "I'm Elizabeth."

The nurses at the treatment centre don't introduce themselves to rotters. They wear name badges, and as far as they're concerned that's all that's needed.

"Nice to meet you," Ste says, because one of them's got to, and he feels for where Brendan's foot is under the table and kicks it.

Brendan looks at him pointedly, but still doesn't say anything.

"You too dear." She waits, smiles at him.

"Oh - me?" He's stumbling over his words. Years spent in the Human Volenteer Force and he still isn't any good at this.

Elizabeth nods.

"Ste."

"Steven," a voice from beside him says. Brendan must have finally decided to talk.

Ste doesn't look his way.

"It's Ste, actually."

Elizabeth glances at them both. She looks confused but there's still that smile there, fixed in place.

"And you are?"

Another kick directed towards Brendan when he doesn't reply.

"Warren."

Ste stares at him. Brendan looks straight ahead, as calm as anything. He's moved his legs away so Ste can't kick him anymore; a wise choice, seeing as how that's the first thing he thinks of doing.

"Lovely to meet you, Warren." She sounds like she means it.

"Thanks for the coffee," Brendan says, Elizabeth not pointing out that he's yet to drink his. "But we're in a rush, so."

"Of course." Elizabeth stands up. "The lenses are just through here."

Brendan stands slowly, looking towards where Elizabeth's pointed to. All they can see from this angle is a door, the contents of the room hidden from them, and Brendan's hesitating. He thinks it's a trap.

"Come on then," Ste says, and it's his turn to lead this time. If someone's in that room who could hurt Brendan, then they wouldn't dare to touch him. Not a human. Not a member of the HVF.

He knows all this, but he's still starting to wish that he'd brought his gun.

They make their way to the room. Elizabeth goes first - perhaps she's sensed that Ste suddenly feels unsteady on his feet - and she holds the door open for them both. Ste feels like closing his eyes when he enters the room, but he knows how dangerous that could be. If something's going to happen then he needs to see it. He needs to be able to stop it, to get both himself and Brendan out of there.

There's nothing. It's just a room. It's too small to hide anything. There's only a sofa and a table where several things are laid - jars of cover up mousse, packets of contact lenses, and a stack of leaflets. There's the partially deceased booklet that Ste's seen before, and others which he's seeing for the first time: Helplines you can call. Support meetings you can go. _Suicide prevention_ , one of them says, and Ste wonders if they see the irony of someone dead killing themselves. But he doesn't say it, because it hits him, anything thing that he hadn't known. He'd never thought about a rotter committing suicide. He'd never even considered that that's something they could do.

"Blue eyes?" Elizabeth asks, and Brendan nods. She goes to select the correct packet from the table, putting it into a plastic bag and handing it over. "Go and put them on now if you like."

"I'll wait." Brendan's arms are by his side, tense, his knuckles drained of colour from where they're gripping the bag.

"You're not driving me back again without those contacts in," Ste says. "I mean it. If we crash and it's your fault -"

"We won't crash."

"No, we won't. Because you'll have your new contacts in, won't you?"

Ste thinks he's going to lose, but after a second - of much resistance and unconcealed irritation - Brendan turns to Elizabeth and asks for directions to the bathroom. He makes a little too much noise walking up the stairs as he goes, and Ste can hear the door slam from where he's standing.

"Sorry about that. About him."

"I hope you'll get him to come here sooner next time. Poor thing."

"You noticed then?" Ste thought it was just him who could see how much pain Brendan was in; the rotter was good at hiding it from everyone else.

"Hard not to. He's not the first to leave it this long."

"He's an idiot."

Elizabeth laughs. "It's his pride, isn't it? It's understandable."

"Is it?" Ste makes no attempts to keep his voice down. He almost wants Brendan to hear. "I wouldn't do it, if it was me. I wouldn't leave it all these months just because of my _pride_."

"We all think that, love, but none of us know, do we? None of us really know what we'd do."

Ste shrugs. She's right, but he doesn't want to say it. He can imagine it all he likes, all the things he thinks he'd say or wouldn't say, or how he'd act or wouldn't act, but he doesn't actually know for sure.

"I guess not."

"You did a good thing bringing him here today. I'm sure he appreciates the support."

Ste shakes his head, laughs. "I doubt it."

"I mean it. You're a good friend."

He can't pretend. He can't lie about this.

"You've seen my uniform." Not a question. "You must be wondering why I'm here. You must know that I'm not a friend."

Elizabeth turns her back on him, straightening out the leaflets on the table. She's quiet when she speaks.

"It's not up to me to talk about these things."

"What things?"

She's tidying up the packets of lenses now too, even though they were already pristine.

"Nothing that happens here leaves this place. Nothing."

Ste frowns.

"What do you mean?"

Has he said something he shouldn't? Has he _done_ something?

"You're not the first, Ste."

"Not the first to what?"

"To come here." She doesn't want to be telling him this. It looks like it's being forced out of her against her will.

He tries to make sense of it, but he draws a blank. Lots of people must come here.

She must see him struggling, because she keeps talking.

"I've seen your kind before."

"Wait, are you... Do you mean the Human Volenteer Force?"

Her lack of an answer is a confirmation.

"When?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Who came here? Was it..." His mind is running away with him. He wants to know everything; who came, and exactly when it was, and exactly what they said.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters!" He's aware that he's started shouting. He sees Elizabeth shrink back from it, from him.

 _Fuck_. She doesn't deserve this. She's been good to him, and to Brendan, and he doesn't think that's been a lie. He doesn't think that when they leave she'll go back to being someone different, her kindness slipping.

"I'm sorry." He looks to see if she's scared of him, studies her with more intensity than he ought to.

Uneasy, maybe, but not scared. He knows that could be wishful thinking on his part though. "I just can't believe it." He sinks onto the sofa, doesn't stop to ask if he's allowed to.

"It's not that surprising."

He knows she's trying to make him feel better, but it has the opposite effect.

"Isn't it?"

He's never heard of anyone in the HVF coming here. Why would they? Everything they needed was in the treatment centre. They had no need for a place like this. It was for the rotters, not for them.

There's something she's not telling him.

"Do they come here like me and Warren did?" He remembers Brendan's cover name at the last minute. "Do they come with a rotter?"

"It's not for me to say."

"I'm not going to say anything. I promise." He knows his words don't count for much. He could promise anything to her; it doesn't mean it's true. He's as good as a stranger.

He doesn't think Elizabeth's going to tell him anything else, but she begins to speak into the silence.

"I didn't know who they were at first. I didn't care that they were human. We have them in here all the time, you know."

"Humans?"

She nods. "The partially deceased are ashamed, you see." She looks upset, stopping to take a breath. "They don't like coming here. I've tried to do everything I can to welcome them, but it doesn't always work."

Ste thinks about the way she'd answered the door, how she'd smiled. How she'd made them drinks and offered them food. How she'd introduced herself, and how she'd wanted to know their names. How there had been no difference in the way she'd talked to him and the way she'd talked to Brendan. The house itself: how it feels like that, just a house, and not a hospital.

"You do. You do welcome them."

Elizabeth gives him a grateful smile.

"They get their families to come. Their friends."

Is that what Sarah does? Ste's never asked before, has never thought to find out where she gets her lenses and cover up mousse from. For all he knows it could be Mike doing it every time.

It could be Amy.

"That's why I didn't think anything about it to begin with. I just thought they were family."

"The HVF?"

"Yes."

"How did you find out?"

She hesitates, searching his face like she's trying to work out whether she can trust him.

"I saw them around town. Saw them in their uniforms."

"Them? You mean there's more than one of them who comes here?"

"Like I said, you'd be surprised."

There's so much more he wants to know. He wants a list of names. He wants to find out exactly who comes here, whether it's the HVF in this town - and he's guessing it is - or whether there are people who travel from further afield. They could be people that he's known all this time, who he speaks to every day. But who? He can't think of anyone who's connected to a rotter. Tony, Darren, all of the girls - all of their families are human.

"That's why I let you in. I understand, Ste."

He can't look at her. Her understanding, her sympathy - he hasn't done anything to earn it. He's a fraud.

"I meant what I said before. You should be proud of yourself, bringing Warren here."

"No one makes Warren do anything he doesn't want to do."

"Everyone needs some encouragement though, don't they? Some support."

Brendan never seems like he needs anyone.

"Is that why you work here?" He's expecting Elizabeth to tell him he's gone too far, that his line of questioning is an intrusion. He'd do the same if someone asked him why he'd chosen to work for the HVF; he wouldn't have an answer. He wouldn't know why he'd ever joined it in the first place. The reasons he once had seem distant, gone.

"I got sick of seeing how they were treated." She's angry for the first time. "I saw what was being done to them. Attacked in the street, left for dead. Losing their homes. Their families turning their backs on them. I couldn't do nothing, could I?"

"No," Ste says hastily, worried that she's directing it all at him. _How they were treated._ She must know that the HVF were instrumental in spreading stories. How they gradually turned everyone against the rotters, even the people who had been willing to give them a chance.

She must know where his mind's gone to.

"Not you, love." She steps closer to him and pats him on the shoulder. "You're one of the ones who's fighting it from the inside. Don't worry. I know."

She thinks he's an _insider?_

"No, I'm -"

"I hope your friend hasn't fallen in." She laughs. "Better go and check on him, eh? He might be having trouble with those contacts."

Ste gets to his feet, disorientated. He's part of something now; she's made him part of it.

He knows before he opens the door that Brendan will be behind it. He hadn't heard his footsteps on the stairs or a creaking of the floorboards, but he'd known that Brendan would be listening.

The rotter doesn't even try to pretend he wasn't.

His eyes look better already, less sore. They seem more blue than before too, like a magic trick that Ste can't look away from.

"How are they?" Elizabeth steps out from behind Ste. If Brendan hadn't been listening in then he'd never know that anything had happened in his absence. She's calm, as cheerful as she'd been when she'd first invited them in.

"Fine."

Ste almost wishes that they hadn't come. Brendan seems less fragile with the new contacts. It reminds Ste of when they'd first met, when he'd been fearless. When he looked like he could break him.

"Remember to come back in a couple of months. Don't leave it so long again."

Brendan doesn't appear to register her words. He's already staring past her, his eyes focused on the door like he could burn a hole through it with his thoughts alone.

"Why don't I give you some mousse while you're here, Warren? I might as well."

 _Stop_.

Ste wants to shout at her. It's not that it's not appreciated, the way she's being. But it's all so _strange_. It must exhaust her, putting on this act all the time, pretending to see rotters as equal as her. He doesn't see how it's not; doesn't see how it can't be an act. Some part of her must realise how wrong this all is.

"I've got enough." Brendan's jaw is tense, his lips pressed together in a thin, sharp line.

"You must only have half a jar, don't you?"

Brendan stares at her, unable to hide the shock from his face.

"I've done this a long time. You get good at guessing."

"How did you -"

"You hadn't had a new pair of lenses in a long time. You must not have had the mousse either. It doesn't take a genius to find out."

The shock passes. Brendan's expression is hard again, his tone disinterested.

"Okay."

"Great." Elizabeth beams. Ste's never met someone who gets excited over so little. "I'll pop it in the bag for you."

She grabs a jar and puts it in alongside the lenses, then gestures for them to lead the way outside. Brendan tucks his bag behind his back like he's trying to hide it completely. It's nondescript, no logo lining the material, no indication of what's inside, but Ste's sure that he wouldn't be holding it at all if they didn't have the car to conceal it in.

"Great to meet you both." She holds out her hand. Ste shakes it, drawing in a breath when Brendan looks like he's about to attack her, releasing it when Brendan takes her hand, shaking it quickly. "Feel free to come and visit again whenever you want."

To the outside world it could look like they've just gone to a friend's house for tea.

"Thank you," Ste says, relieved at the speed in which Brendan unlocks the car so they can both get it. "Thanks for the coffee too." He imagines Brendan's mug still lying on the table, untouched.

Elizabeth waves at them until they drive around the corner and out of sight.

::::::

The new contacts seem to have made Brendan into more of a reckless driver, not less.

The rotter's doing it on purpose. It's Ste punishment. It's for everything Brendan heard him say when he was listening at the door.

Ste's not going to give into it. He didn't do anything wrong. He doesn't have anything to be feeling guilty for. Fuck Brendan for trying to make him feel bad. Fuck him for making him do all the talking back there. Fuck him for his _pride_ , for making it so Ste had no choice but to bring him here.

"Are you going to tell me what all that was about back there?"

They've been driving, sans radio this time, for five minutes. Ste can't take the silence anymore.

"Did you hear what I said, Warren?"

Brendan gives into the dig.

"I couldn't give her my real name."

"Why not? I gave her mine."

"That's your fault."

"I didn't know we had to lie! Do you know how much trouble I could get in for coming here? But I still did it, didn't I? I still told the truth."

"Why would you get into trouble?" Brendan looks at him. Ste can't tell if he's genuinely curious or if he's messing with his head.

The rotter could use this to his own advantage. He could go to Warren and tell him that Ste had come here. And then what? Warren might not reward Brendan for being a grass, but he would still make sure to punish Ste. He's told himself this entire time that he was just doing his job, that Warren and Danny had wanted him to spend time with Brendan. But he knows that they wouldn't want this; wouldn't want him talking to Elizabeth or anyone else who spoke so strongly against the Human Volenteer Force.

"Stop changing the subject." He doesn't admit that he's the one changing it too, too scared to answer him. "Why the fake name?"

"I don't want her knowing who I am."

"Why not?"

"Because it's none of her business, that's why."

"She's a nice woman, Brendan."

"They're all nice to begin with. They all smile and say _please_ and _thank you_ , and act like you have a choice. They all reel you in, make you think you can trust them. But you can't."

"How do you know? When have you ever trusted anyone? And don't tell me that I don't even know you, alright? Because I know enough. And I can't imagine you ever believing a word anyone says."

Brendan keeps his eyes on the road.

"What if Warren finds out that you used his name?"

"How's he going to find out?" Brendan seems more secure again, back on a subject that's more familiar. Arguing comes easier to him.

"I don't know. He always finds out. It's just what he does."

"Well he won't. No one will." It sounds like a demand: _Don't tell anyone._ "It's done now, isn't it. It's over. I've got the stupid contacts."

Ste leans forward, puts on the radio. He expects Brendan to slap his hand away, but he doesn't.

"Are they okay? The contacts."

"They're fine."

"I mean it. Don't just tell me they're fine when they're not. That's what you said about the last ones, and they were fucking your eyes up, weren't they? Like glass, you said. _They always feel like glass._ So how can they be fine?"

Brendan hits his hands against the steering wheel, causing Ste to look up in alarm.

"They're okay, Steven. Did you hear that? _They're_ _okay_. They're as good as they're ever going to be. Will you get off my fucking case about it now?"

Ste finds that he's laughing. He rolls down the window and looks out of it, thinks that by doing so he can extinguish it. It mostly works; he keeps leaning out until the laughter no longer feels like it's bubbling up from inside him. He doesn't know why it's happening; nothing about this is funny. But maybe that's it - maybe he has no idea how he got here, and it's making him hysterical.

"Alright," he says when he trusts himself to speak. "Alright."

"Good. Now shut up and listen to the music."

He shuts up.

::::::

Brendan stops the car near the town hall, turns the radio down.

"You can sit up now."

"What?" Ste says.

"Time to get out. No one can see you now."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've been hiding." Brendan says it stoically, as casual as anything.

"No I haven't."

He has, and it's making him defensive. He hadn't thought that Brendan had noticed. It's not like he'd been hiding in an obvious way. He wasn't curled up in his seat with his head down the whole journey. He hadn't put a blanket over his head, or borrowed Brendan's sunglasses. He'd just slouched a little, is all. He'd just made himself smaller.

 _Don't insult me._ That's the look Brendan gives him.

"I'm in my uniform." He hopes it's enough of an explanation, but he can tell it's not. "If someone sees me then they'll start talking, won't they?"

"You mean if someone sees that you're with me?"

"Yeah." Ste says, unable to get around it. "Come on, you know they would."

"I know you're a coward."

Ste feels like he's been hit.

"No I'm not." He turns to Brendan, and if he could shake him to make him believe that he's not what he's saying he is, then he would. He would. "It's not like you want people to see that you're with me either, do you? Wouldn't that ruin your reputation?" He jokes, close to elbowing Brendan, but stopping himself at the last minute. He can't do that.

"I invited you here."

"No you didn't. I had to ask you. I was the one who did it."

"I could have left you out there. I invited you in, Steven."

He thinks of the way Brendan had turned to him. The way he'd looked at him, considering, deciding on whatever he needed to decide, before he asked him to come with him. Brendan's right: he could have left him there, could have closed the door in his face. It would have been easier; Ste never would have had to see that room, never would have had to see the leaflets, never would have talked to Elizabeth. But he'd have known that Brendan didn't want him there, that he didn't trust him enough.

But that's what he'd accused Brendan of, wasn't it? _When have you ever trusted anyone?_

"I wasn't hiding."

He can immediately tell that he's said the wrong thing. Brendan's disappointed in him. An apology would have been better, or an argument. But not this. Not a lie.

"You better go before someone sees you."

"Don't be like that. Don't be... I'm not even home yet."

"You can walk."

He could. He's done it a thousand times before, this same path from the village to the flat. He's not even far now, and he could do with a walk to clear his head. But he doesn't want to leave it like this.

"It's late. Thought you didn't want me walking back in the dark?"

Brendan looks out of the window, highlighting the glaringly obvious fact that it's still light out.

"Come on. This is what we do, isn't it?"

"What we do?" Brendan repeats. He doesn't sound disappointed now, he sounds detached. Like he's already left the conversation. Like he's already left the car.

"Yeah. You drive me home, and..." He stops himself from saying something stupid. From saying _it's our tradition._ It's not. Traditions are formed over years, not over a few weeks which don't mean a thing. None of this is even his idea. He wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for Danny Houston. "Please." He's resorted to begging. He'd forgive himself if it was something important, if it was for his life. But _this_ \- asking Brendan to drive him home just so they don't end on a bad note - this he can't make sense of.

"Get out." He's one step away from shouting now. When Ste does nothing he leans over, his hand brushing against Ste's leg as he makes a grab for the car door, opening it roughly.

Ste has no choice. He undoes his seatbelt and climbs out. He's not even thinking about anyone seeing them together now; the entire Human Volenteer Force could be walking past them and he wouldn't notice a thing.

He closes the door without saying anything, turning his back before Brendan has a chance to see that he's hurt him. He tries to tell himself that he's chosen to leave, but he's all too aware that he's been thrown out, that Brendan would have removed him by force if he hadn't left when he did.

Being sent away by a rotter. There's a first for everything.

::::::

He's close to home when the car beeps at him. It's tailing him so closely that for a moment he thinks that it's Warren, that he's found out about where he's been today and he's going to drive straight into him. Ste swiftly moves to the side of the road, away from the centre to avoid the car, trying to get it to drive straight past.

It slows down, moves so it's beside him.

"Brendan?"

He hadn't recognised the car because he hadn't been expecting it, hadn't thought that Brendan would come back.

Ste comes closer, makes sure it's really him. He watches as the rotter leans, opening the door again.

"Get in."

"Have you lost it?"

That earns him a smile, however fleeting.

"Get in," he says again, leaning back in his seat like he knows Ste will do as he says.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you home."

"I'm nearly there." What he really wants to ask is _why are you here?_ He can already tell that Brendan won't answer him. "There's no point."

"There's every point, Steven."

"Stop being..."

"Helpful? Generous, giving you a lift?"

"I'm not sure it's generous when you already dumped me in the middle of the street."

"You make it sound so callous, Steven. I dropped you, that's all. And now I'm picking you back up."

"You make it sound like I'm a toy."

"Toys are fun. And you're not being very fun now, are you?"

Ste's about to tell him to fuck himself, that he can make his own way back. Brendan must sense it, because he backs down.

"I shouldn't have done that before."

"Is that your version of an apology?" He wants Brendan to say it, wants to hear it: _I'm sorry._

"Kind of. If you like."

It's the closest Ste will get.

"You're right. You shouldn't have done it." He starts to walk away. He can feel his resolve crumbling already; he's amazed that Brendan would even come back. He can imagine what Warren and Danny would say, how excited they'd be about it. _He came back. He actually came back._ He'll have to tell them. Anything to avoid being kept in that basement for longer and being told that he's pathetic, that he's nothing.

"Steven."

He thinks he'll hear the car following him, but he doesn't. The engine stops, and the door closes. Ste looks behind him - he can't help himself - and sees that Brendan's got out, is walking towards him.

Part of him wants to run. Part of him wants to stay exactly where he is. His choice is made for him. Brendan's faster than he is, and he reaches him in seconds.

"I shouldn't have snapped before."

The sun's in Ste's eyes and he can feel it seeping into his skin underneath his uniform. He'd been so worried before about someone seeing him with Brendan, but now there are people passing them and he doesn't care. He doesn't look their way, doesn't see if they're staring at them.

"No, you shouldn't have."

He's not going to make this easy on Brendan. He can't be a bastard and expect to get away with it every time.

Brendan plays with the car keys, moving them round his fingers.

"Are you going to get in?" He nods towards the car. At least he's giving Ste a choice now, instead of demanding it.

Ste looks between him and the car. He knows he's right in what he said before - there's no point in getting back in. He'll be home in a few minutes, but he also knows it's not about that.

He should walk away. It's what Brendan deserves.

Danny would want him to get back in. Danny would tell him that he has to. He tells himself that he's doing it for him when he goes over to the passenger seat. That he's doing it so he can be free one day.

The radio's still on. It's been tuned to a different station, one that Ste likes.

He wants to know when it was that Brendan turned around. It can't have been right away, so when? How soon? What made him do it? He can't imagine Brendan having that thought, deciding that he couldn't leave things like that. Turning around and following him.

 _Following him._ Ste doesn't know if he should feel sick at the thought of it. There's an uneasiness there, but nothing more. He knows how he should be reacting, but he can't make himself feel it.

He turns sharply when he hears a buzzing noise. He checks his phone, but it's not his. He picks Brendan's phone up from the compartment in front of him, not stopping to ask for permission. He looks at the caller ID, the sound of Brendan telling him not to pick his phone up ever again being blocked out.

"Who is it? Steven?"

"It's Carmel."

The phone rings on and on, incessant. Ste's thumb hovers over _decline_.

"What's she calling for?"

"What am I, a mind reader? How do I know?" Brendan snaps.

"You're not meant to talk on the phone when you're driving, are you." Ste doesn't mention the fact that he'd done exactly that when he was younger, repeatedly.

"Let it go to voicemail then."

Ste presses _decline_ , feels a certain amount of satisfaction in doing it.

He wishes it was like a normal phone where he could hear the answer machine message. He waits, staring at the screen and hoping that Brendan won't notice that he's still holding it. A few minutes later it flashes, showing that Carmel's left a message.

He reluctantly puts the phone back in the compartment.

"Are you meeting up later?"

"Don't know." It's little more than a grunt.

Ste lightly kicks the floor of the car where his foot's resting.

"Did you go out the other night then?"

"What?" He doesn't know what Brendan's talking about. All his nights consist of either patrolling or putting the kids to bed and collapsing on the sofa with Amy. Going out - _out_ out - is largely a foreign concept. "Me and Carmel?"

"Not, not you and Carmel." Brendan laughs like he's said something ridiculous. "You said you might go into town." Brendan's making an effort to keep his voice casual, but Ste can see through it. He's learning to tell the difference.

He remembers now, vaguely. If Brendan's asking him then he either followed him out like Ste thought he might and he's lying about it, or he really didn't stay behind and watch him. It should be clear cut, which one he'd prefer, but it's not.

"Just stayed in in the end." He settles for the truth; fabricating a night out would be a step too far, even for him. "Might go out tonight though. Get together some mates, go to that club we went to."

He's not sure what's more pathetic: the sound of _get together some mates_ or the fact that he's recalling places that he and Brendan have been to together. His most recent night out has been with the rotter. It's a bitter pill to swallow.

Ste doesn't feel the relief he thought he would when they stop outside his flat. Brendan must notice that he's not in a rush to go anywhere; he doesn't press him to leave.

"You kissed her yet, then?" He does elbow Brendan this time - it's as uncomfortable and instantly regrettable as he thought it would be - and he's grinning so forcedly that his face feels like it's stretching out of shape. He hears himself laughing, and he thinks of all the times he and Justin did this, this _blokey_ stuff, and how it hadn't felt like this. It hadn't made him feel this out of place.

"A gentleman never tells."

"You're not a gentleman though, are you?" _And that's not an answer._

"Amy will be waiting for you."

Conversation closed. Ste doesn't know how Brendan does that, how what he says is what they automatically do. He has no power to fight against it.

He gets out of the car, puts his hand on the roof and leans over.

"Thanks for the lift."

"This is what we do, isn't it?"


	21. Chapter 21

Something's happened to him. Something's shifted.

He doesn't know when it started, or how it came to be, but he finds that getting up in the morning is easier now. He no longer stays buried under the covers at the sound of his alarm, and he no longer hits the snooze button at least four times, and he no longer feels like he's merely dragging his body around from place to place, a load he has to carry. He can't say that enjoyment comes into it now - he wouldn't go that far - but for the first time in a long time there's excitement in his job, enough of a spark of it to keep him going. The idea of freedom is still always in his mind; freedom from the Human Volenteer Force, freedom from Warren, but he finds that the idea of waiting for that freedom isn't as impossible as it once seemed. It's within reach now, but he can stand things as they are.

He realises it about an hour into work. He and Tony have taken the rotters to the library in town, something new for the first time in weeks, and they're all on tidying up duty. He's surprised to find that some of them recognise the titles on the shelves - he's guilty of thinking that the rotters wouldn't read - and once the librarian gets past having the undead surrounding her, Ste hears snatches of conversation between her and the group. _He's got a new one out_ , she says, and Ste's view is blocked, but he can just about see her showing one of the rotter's a book. And then it's, _did you see the twist coming?_ And _did you like this one?_ Ste hasn't got a clue what they're talking about; the last time he read a book was at school when he was forced to, when he struggled to make out the words. But it strikes him that this is the first time he's seen some of the rotters smiling and engaged.

He stifles a laugh when one of the other members of staff (in a more senior position, Ste guesses from their clothing and disapproval) shushes them. The rotters snigger when his back is turned, and for a moment it feels like they're all part of something. Like he's part of something too.

He looks around the group then, sees that there's one person missing.

"Have you seen Brendan?"

Tony's distracted, busy trying to get Jacqui to lower her voice. A library isn't the place for her; Ste's sure that even people outside the building can hear her.

He gets a half hearted reply and moves away from the group, looks around. What a minute ago had seemed like a relatively small building now seems vast, with so many small corners that he feels dizzy with it. Brendan could be anywhere.

He calls for him, ignores the look that the male librarian is throwing his way. People sitting at desks and tables - students, most of them - look up as he walks by, their eyes following him. Panic's set in, and he knows they can hear it in his voice.

Does this place have CCTV? He's not sure libraries work the same way as shops, but he might have to ask. Not that it would do much good. If Brendan's decided to sneak out then they still wouldn't have a clue where he's gone. Ste checks the toilet just in case, wondering if Brendan had lied to him about the contact lenses; he might still be in pain, might still be hiding away in there. But he'd looked fine this morning when they'd all met. The redness in his eyes was gone, and he'd looked, if not relaxed, then better. Better for him.

The toilets are empty.

He opens the door and collides head on with someone waiting outside. He's sure that he'd been going at a faster speed than them, but it's him who reels back, feeling like he's had the wind knocked out of him. The chest he'd collided with had been hard and solid, and he can already tell from the person's reaction that his own hadn't been quite so injury inducing.

There are hands on his shoulders, steadying him.

"You alright?"

"Yeah." Ste shrugs him off, embarrassed. "I was just looking for you." He's pleased to hear how casual it sounds.

"So I see." When Ste frowns Brendan adds, "Heard you shouting the place down."

So much for the casualness.

"I wasn't _shouting_." He wasn't, was he? He may have raised his voice a bit, but he wasn't shouting. He's sure he wasn't. "I've told you before, you can't just go off like that."

"I was working." The way he says it sounds mocking; Ste knows exactly what Brendan thinks of this _work_.

"Being on your phone doesn't count, Brendan."

"I wasn't on my phone. I was tidying."

He laughs. Brendan could be telling the truth and he'd still do it. It's the idea of it, the idea of Brendan actually doing what he's told.

"Come over here and do it."

 _Where I can see you. Where you won't run away again._

He sees the rotter hesitate.

"What's wrong? It's not your contacts is it? Are they playing up again? Because we can go back to that Elizabeth, make her give you a new pair."

"They're fine."

Ste sighs. "You know what your problem is?"

"No," Brendan says, and for a second he looks on edge, like he's worried what Ste's going to say. "There's only one?"

"You're too proud. It's true," he says, when Brendan turns away, dismissive. "You don't ever ask for help."

"My contacts are fine. I told you."

"I'm not just on about them. It's everything. You wouldn't have even told me about them if I hadn't found out. And what are you really doing here, away from everyone?"

Brendan reaches out, lays a hand on one of the bookcases, his fingers trailing down a spine of one of the books. He's silent.

"They don't like me either, you know," Ste says, and he's staring at the bookcase as he speaks, focuses his eyes on the wood so he doesn't have to look at Brendan when he laughs at him. He doesn't though; he doesn't laugh. "They don't even listen to me."

He's considered bringing his gun into work, see if that would give him some authority. But he doesn't - he doesn't want that to be the only reason that he gains their respect, and he doesn't want to know if it still wouldn't be enough to change their minds.

"They don't listen to anyone."

"They listen to Tony." He's seen it, the way that they'll respond when it's him talking. Ste doesn't know why - Tony's one of the least intimidating people he's ever met - but still they listen. Still they don't laugh behind his back, or look at him like they don't know why he's here. Like he's an impostor.

"You're young, Steven."

"I'm not though, am I. We've got younger on the force. We've got people my age who the rotters listen to."

If Brendan's noticed that he hasn't referred to them as _the partially deceased_ , then he doesn't say anything.

Ste takes a breath, steadies himself. This isn't about him.

"I know you don't like them. But you can't just... We need to be able to find you. If I lose you then Warren will kill me." The truth, but Brendan doesn't need to know the extent of it. "And..."

Ste hears Brendan shift a little. He still stares at the bookcase.

"And?" Brendan says.

"What?"

"You said _and_."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did," Brendan says, and there's a hint of a laugh too.

He shouldn't have come over here. He should have let Tony deal with this.

"And it wouldn't be terrible if you were here, okay?" He's lowered his voice now, but it still sounds like he's shouting. Like he's telling the whole world.

There's the sound of shifting again, and someone clearing their throat from one of the tables.

"Wouldn't be terrible?"

"Don't let it go to your head. I just mean that it wouldn't be anything... You know. You know what I mean."

Brendan seems to decide that he's going to be purposefully difficult.

"No. No I don't."

Ste chances a glance at him. He's sure that he can see a split second of a smile before his expression becomes blank.

"That's your problem then." He's not going to be the one to tell him. He's not going to do this. He's not going to play this game. "You coming back or not?"

Brendan follows him.

::::::

They're all in separate parts of the library, spread out. Some of the rotters are upstairs with Tony, and the others are on the ground floor with Ste. It had been almost empty when they'd first arrived, but it's even quieter now; most people had made a hasty exit when they'd worked out that the rotters were going to stay, and the few brave enough to stick it out have chosen to sit in a corner of the room that's as far away from them as possible, cordoned off. It's becoming all too familiar. They know how to clear a room.

They have a way of dealing with this, the rotters. Ste's noticed it. They must have felt hurt by it once, but the feeling seems to be distant now, muted. They must observe the way they're treated, the way that people react around them, but he can almost see them rejecting it, pretending that it's not happening. Some of them seem to take a certain pride in the effect they have on people; several times Ste's seen Jacqui make a joke of it, sneering at the way that people look her up and down, wrinkling their noses like she's a bad smell. _Happened to me even when I wasn't dead._ That's what he's heard her saying to Rhys, and they laugh like it's nothing, when he knows it's not. How can something like that be nothing?

Now and again the other rotters chip in on their conversation, or talk amongst themselves. Brendan doesn't. He keeps his distance, but at least Ste can see him now. He's over by the fiction section. _Tidying_ isn't exactly what he's doing, despite his earlier protest. A few times Ste catches him opening some of the books and flicking through the pages, settling on some for minutes at a time, before moving on to the next shelf. He's here though, and that's what matters. He's still a part of this.

It's when Tony's grabbing them all some lunch from the shop nearby that he hears it. Technically they're not meant to eat in here, and Ste can already hear the male librarian going on about _crumbs_ and _mess_ , but all the cafes along the high street are packed, and none of them fancy squeezing around a table and being stared at.

The noise level immediately goes higher when Tony leaves the building, and after a few half hearted attempts to get it to return to normal, Ste gives up and leaves them to it. He's sitting at one of the tables, Jacqui and Rhys making sure the books on the shelves are in alphabetical order (and flirting with each other), and he hears snatches of their conversation, the majority of which he has no interest in. He tunes it out for the most part.

"What's happening with your Carmel and Brendan then?"

He's listening now.

Rhys is speaking quietly. Brendan's far enough away from them that it's doubtful whether he could hear at all, but he's still being careful. Jacqui does the same thing, looking at Brendan to make sure that he's not close to them. Ste can feel them looking at him too, but they must decide that he doesn't seem to be listening in either, or that they don't care if he is.

"She's going on another date with him tonight."

Rhys laughs softly.

"I can't believe it. Carmel, and _him_."

"I've tried telling her, but she won't have it. Reckons he's _dead nice_ and _a gentleman_."

They both laugh together now.

"I would ask if she was talking about the right guy if I hadn't seen them together. You've told her what he's like, haven't you?"

"You think she listens to me? She's made up her mind about him already."

"But shouldn't we try?"

"We? Why are you involved in this?" She doesn't sound annoyed though; she sounds pleased but like she's trying to hide it.

Ste hears Rhys stumble over his words.

"No, it's just... I mean... She's your sister, isn't she. I just thought you wouldn't want her getting hurt."

"Don't worry. If Brendan does anything to her I'll have his balls. But right now nothing's capable of stopping her. She thinks tonight's the night."

Ste looks up, sees her roll her eyes.

"What, you mean..."

"Yes, I mean."

"God. Poor girl. She must be crazy."

"Watch it."

"What?" Rhys says. "You said it yourself before."

"I'm allowed to, aren't I."

Ste has to bite his tongue to stop himself from interrupting: _Are you sure that it's tonight? What time are they meeting? Can your kind even... you know..._ He hadn't truly known if it was possible for rotters to have sex. Poor girl, Rhys had said. Maybe he meant something by that, more than just Carmel's choice in men, or _thing_.

Instead he has to sit quietly, pretending that he hasn't heard anything. Pretending that he doesn't know what's going to happen tonight.

::::::

He hasn't said anything for the rest of the day. People have started to notice. First Jacqui makes a dig about it being a refreshing change that it's quiet, then he's asked by Malachy if he's okay. He snaps back that he's fine, regrets it immediately when Malachy slinks away. That's the first time a rotter's ever asked him that, and after his reaction he's sure it'll be the last.

There's only one person who's being as anti social as he is.

He finds him where he left him, tidying the books in a corner, or pretending to. Pretending is more accurate, Ste guesses, seeing as how Brendan immediately closes a book that he'd been looking at, putting it back on the shelf before Ste has a chance to see what it is.

"Here to tell me off, are you?"

"No." Ste leans against the bookcase, eyes closed. "Do what you like."

He's aware of how reckless he's being. To anyone else it would be a joke, a casual remark, but _do what you like_ to Brendan is akin to giving him a weapon.

"I see you're working hard," Brendan says into the silence.

"I see you're working hard and all."

A pause, then, "Point."

Ste smiles.

"What were you reading?"

"Just... things."

" _Things_. That sounds great."

"It's fascinating, Steven."

"Tell me then." Like with Brendan's clubbing days, he finds that he wants to know.

"You wouldn't be interested."

Ste's quiet, knocking against the bookcase with his trainer.

"I get it." He thinks he'll sound irritated, but to his embarrassment he sounds hurt.

"What?"

"Doesn't matter."

"No, come on." It's Brendan who wants to know now.

"You think I won't be able to keep up, because I'm... You think I'm not smart enough." Saying it makes it sting more, and he wishes he'd kept quiet.

"For fuck's sake, Steven."

"So I'm right then."

"No, you're not right."

He says it with such vehemence that Ste looks up, startled.

"Don't backtrack -"

"I never _tracked_ in the first place. You said it, not me."

"No, you said it." Ste's brow creases as he struggles to remember exactly what Brendan _had_ said.

"See. You know, don't you? You know you're getting at me about nothing."

"You didn't want to tell me -"

"Because it's not interesting okay? What I have to say, it's not..."

He thinks it's him. He thinks it's him who's not interesting.

"Brendan -"

"This is a library, you know."

They both jump at the voice, at the interruption. It's the male librarian, the one who'd looked at Ste disapprovingly for talking too loudly earlier.

"Sorry, we were just..." He doesn't feel sorry. Having this conversation right here, right now, feels more important than the fact that they're meant to be quiet. Ste's forgotten about the entire reason they're here to begin with. Watching the rotters as they work no longer seems like a priority.

Maybe his disingenuous tone is obvious, because the librarian regards him with disdain. But his attention is soon caught by something which seems to offend him more: Brendan.

"What are you doing here?"

"Working," Brendan says, as though the guy needs his head checked for not seeing that.

The librarian scans the shelves, looking around like he suspects Brendan of putting something dangerous in between them. He doesn't seem placated when he finds nothing; there's scepticism there that he makes no attempt to hide, as though he's sure Brendan's planted an explosive somewhere else.

"You got a problem?" Brendan's advancing on him, backing the librarian against a shelf, and Ste has to try to wriggle his way in between to distance them.

The man doesn't look scared. He does look disgusted though; disgusted that Brendan might touch him.

"I knew this was a bad idea." He's recoiling like Brendan's something rancid.

"And what's that?" Brendan's begging for him to say something, to give him the excuse to lash out, but Ste doesn't want to hear what the man's got to say. He knows what's coming, and he wishes he could take them both away from here.

"Having _you lot_ here."

Brendan's got what he wanted. He's gripping the man's shirt collar now, and there's a twisted kind of delight that he's got permission to hurt him. All Ste can think about is how this is exactly what Danny and Warren want. They've been waiting for this since the start, for Brendan to get into trouble. The near fight with Malachy was a start, but this - Brendan actually attacking a human - will be the perfect opportunity they've been looking for.

Ste knows he should play into their hands, should let Brendan do as much damage as possible, but the man's spewing more hatred, more abuse, and there's so much rage behind it all that it makes him flinch.

"You don't belong here. Go back to where you belong, in the ground." He's not speaking loudly - he's clever, this guy, and is trying to keep this private - but Ste would rather he shouted. Something seems more threatening about this false softness. "And get your hands off me." He's shuddering - real or put on, Ste doesn't know - at the feel and the sight of Brendan's hands on him. Ste imagines him throwing away his clothes when he gets home. Washing them won't be enough, not for this man. Or, if he chooses to go even further, burning them.

"Brendan, don't." Ste directs everything at him, because he can't bear to look at the librarian, can't lower himself to speak to him. He's heard this directed at rotters before, all of this talk, about _you don't belong_ and _you're vermin_ and _I fucking hate you._ He's heard it from people he knows, people he works with. But to hear it now, spoken so viciously, to a rotter that Ste's spent months with, who's given him lifts home - it's too much. He can't take it.

"Get off me, Steven."

Brendan tries to shrug him off but Ste holds on tight, tries to force Brendan's hands away from the man. He does, eventually - not entirely because of his strength, as he knows that Brendan could easily overpower him, but because the librarian takes a sudden step back. Brendan would have to reveal himself to the entire library with his hands close to the man's throat if he moved with him.

Ste's surprised; he'd expected Brendan to attack the man, regardless of who was around to witness it.

The librarian makes no attempt to smooth down his clothes, and Ste soon finds out why. He watches as the man approaches the desk where the more senior member of staff is sitting, and he says, plain as day, "I've just been attacked."

Ste sees the more nosy onlookers - previously reading newspapers or browsing the shelves - look up, making a bad job of pretending that they're not eavesdropping. Everyone loves a scandal - although not, as Ste finds out, the man that the librarian's just spoken to, who appears to be struggling to process the information. Ste wonders if this particular member of staff gets hysterical on a daily basis, and his senior has learnt to take everything he says with a pinch of salt.

 _I've been attacked by a rotter. By him_. There's pointing like they're in a playground, and then the senior's hushed tones of _they're called the partially deceased_ , and the librarian swiftly ignoring him and sidestepping the correction. _He's just grabbed me_ , and then a performance of what Brendan did - drastically worsened to make it look far more alarming than it was - and a furious _What are you going to do about it?_

The senior member of staff sighs, getting to his feet. He looks over at Brendan, and Ste knows that's all it could take: he looks capable of something like that. It's not the same as if it were Rhys, who looks like he would have been useless in a fight even as a rabid. Brendan's bulk and emotional detachment make him a likely suspect. He looks poised, unafraid by the man's claims, but Ste knows that inside he must be wondering how the hell he's going to get out of this.

It's no longer private. More people are figuring out that something's going on, including Tony. He's over to them quicker than the senior is, eyes wide with panic.

"What's happened?"

Ste knows Tony will believe the librarian. They all will, because they all think it's in Brendan's nature. Not his nature as a rotter - not just that - but in his nature as whoever he was before he died.

"Nothing. Don't worry, please," Ste says, but it's too late; he's already worrying, and this isn't something he can just brush away.

They're interrupted by the senior, looking disgruntled at having to leave his seat.

"Is this true?" He doesn't bother to elaborate on what Brendan's being accused of: the whole library knows by now.

Before Brendan can say anything, Ste cuts in.

"No, it's not true."

The man turns to him, looks him over for the first time. He takes in the uniform and everything that comes with it. He must know about the Human Volenteer Force's reputation, that they're renowned for hating rotters. He must know that Ste would be the last person to unnecessarily defend one, which makes this work in his favour perfectly.

"Ste? What's going on?" Tony says, desperate.

Ste ignores him, carrying on steadily and with more confidence than he feels.

"I saw the whole thing. The guy had a go at him, thought he wasn't doing any work - which he was. He obviously doesn't like him. _Them,_ their kind. Thought he'd get his own back, make up some stupid story."

He wonders if it would be this easy to lie to a judge and jury on a witness stand. He tells himself that what he's doing isn't anything close to that; it's not illegal, this lie. But still he feels hot, ashamed, like they all must know.

He'd underestimated Tony's willingness to stand by him through anything.

"Right, that's sorted then." Tony nods, satisfied, as though it's all that simple.

The senior librarian doesn't look so sure.

"Why would he say that though?"

Ste shrugs like he doesn't have a clue. "Maybe he's just trying to cause trouble. People do that, don't they. They don't want them here in their community."

He's aware of Brendan hearing him speak like this, and he hopes he knows that _their kind_ and the dismissal of _them_ is for the staff's benefit. He has to make this seem convincing, and no one's going to buy an HVF member who's too defensive of a rotter.

"I guess so." The man's still hesitant but he's warming to the idea; it's clear that there's not a lot of love lost between him and the other man, with the way he's edging around this like it's something of little consequence to him.

 _Please don't let there be CCTV. If there is then all of this falls apart._

Maybe the librarian who had accused Brendan is sensing that he's losing, because he's over to them in a flash, red faced and raising his voice until he drowns the rest of them out.

"Why are you just standing there?" He's directing his words towards his colleague, but the man's not shrinking from his anger; he looks even more exasperated.

"Was this man a witness?" The senior asks the librarian, looking at Ste.

 _A witness._ He is on trial then.

"Yes," the librarian says dismissively, clearly not seeing why this is of any importance.

"He's saying that you never touched Mr..." He glances at Brendan, waits for him to speak.

"Brady," Brendan says, pleased with himself. He's gone from being a suspect, to being told to go back to where he belongs, to being someone who's seen to be deserving of being addressed by his surname.

"Mr Brady, thank you. Did Mr Brady touch you or didn't he?"

"Of course he did, you..." The librarian takes a deep breath in, and Ste tries to fill in the blank: You idiot? You bastard? "I just told you, didn't I? This man," he looks at Ste with unconcealed fury, "Is lying to you."

"Ste wouldn't do that," Tony chimes in, and Ste could hug him. "I know he wouldn't. Listen, I think you've got your wires crossed here somehow. If Ste says Brendan didn't do anything, then I believe him."

Ste doesn't miss the way Brendan looks at Tony out of the corner of his eye, clearly annoyed that he didn't believe it because of _him_.

"So maybe we can all just leave this, and -"

"Leave it?" The librarian laughs, insulted. "He attacked me! He could have killed me."

Ste rolls his eyes, would happily accuse the man of being dramatic if it wouldn't draw attention to how something did happen after all.

The librarian turns on him - only just missing the eye roll - eyes ablaze, the tendons in his neck standing out.

"Why are you lying?"

"I'm not lying. Brendan didn't do anything." He speaks with all the conviction he has, so much so that he almost fools himself, thinks that maybe everything that happened was distorted by this man after all.

The man shakes his head at him, knows that he's lying but doesn't know why, can't make sense of it.

"None of this should be happening." He's turned towards the senior staff member now, speaking through gritted teeth, his face still a mottled red. "They shouldn't be here at all."

"Matthew -"

The librarian - Matthew - has clearly had this conversation all too often. Perhaps he's been convinced in the past, convinced that he can't drive the rotters away through dislike alone, but he isn't allowing himself to be calmed down anymore.

"No, come on. Come with me."

He still won't touch Brendan. He sidesteps him, makes sure that their bodies have no contact whatsoever, but he does touch Ste; drags him forward with an arm on his, ignores Tony's protests and Ste demanding that he get his hands off him. Brendan's following them every step of the way, and Ste can see that he's about to reach out and put a stop to it. Only his interjection of _Brendan, don't_ halts him in his tracks. It's the urgency of his tone as well as his words. Brendan has to know that he can't do this, can't touch Matthew, not after Ste already lied to protect him. This can't all be for nothing.

They stop. The other rotters have gathered, looking on like they don't know whether to fight or run. Some of them clearly feel threatened - they can see the hatred coming off of Matthew - but others, particularly Jacqui and Rhys, look like they're ready to face this, whatever it is. They're not going anywhere.

Matthew storms behind the desk and goes straight to the computer, his hands hurriedly typing. Ste waits, growing increasingly nervous, not knowing what's happening. He knows Matthew must be preparing to show him something, and it's that possibility and the fact that he has no idea what is is that makes the anticipation worse. Whatever it is, he knows it can't be good.

The computer screen is turned around, made to face in Ste's direction.

"What is it?" Ste says, feeling his earlier confidence vanishing. Defending Brendan had been the easy part. This all feels shrouded in uncertainty.

"It's a list of terms and conditions for working here. Read it."

He can hear Tony next to him, can hear him muttering _this is ridiculous_ , and he's aware of Brendan on his other side. Their arms brush against each other, and for a fleeting moment Ste wonders if Brendan's done it on purpose, done it to make sure that Ste knows he's there. There for him.

"If you can find anything in there that says that I have to work with these..." Matthew looks around, his eyes settling distastefully on the rotters, " _Things_ , then I'll leave now. I'll quit this job."

The senior librarian echos Tony, tells Matthew to stop this, but that's not what Ste's concentrating on. It's just _noise_ , and the computer screen in front of him seems to be growing more distant, the text there swimming until his eyes begin to hurt; until he rubs them, but still he's not seeing it. It's worse than it had been at the council meeting, worse than trying to read out the instructions. Now there's more of them, more rotters, and humans too - people who want to humiliate him, and people who won't be so easily fooled by his attempts to get out of this.

If Brendan's touching him to make him feel better, then maybe he'll be able to hear him too. _Please_. He focuses hard, says it a dozen times over in his head. _Please help me._

"Go on. Read it."

He pretends he's reading it in his head, but that's not enough - not for this man, not for the point he wants to prove.

"Out loud. Now."

Ste would rather be back in the basement with Danny. He'd rather be pushed into a chair and made to sit in the near darkness, forced to be down there without any windows or light, feeling like all the air has been swallowed out.

"No." It's caught in his throat, strangled, and he can feel the pressure of Brendan's touch increasing. It doesn't hurt - it's present, solid, real, so real that it's anchoring him to the ground when all he wants to do is disappear.

"Why not?"

He can't tell if the questioning is for effect, if Matthew is just going through the motions when he really knows exactly why he can't read it out loud. For all Ste knows he could read the whole damn thing, but the knowledge that they're all looking at him, all waiting and listening, makes the thought of it impossible. He wouldn't mind if he stumbled once or twice, but it's the idea that it would be more than that: that he'd be unable to say anything at all, or that the stumbling would be repeated again and again until it became obvious what was wrong.

"I can't." His voice is louder now, until it's something they must all be able to hear. Everyone.

He runs. He thinks someone will stop him; Brendan, with a hand on his back and a shout of _Steven_. He knows Brendan had been joking when he'd called himself a mind reader, but Ste wonders if it's not entirely impossible. Brendan seems to know what he needs now, knows that the last thing he wants is to be made to stand here with them all staring at him, wondering what this defect in him is.

He makes it out into the open air. He doesn't go far - he's not feeling reckless enough to risk Warren's anger by bailing on his job completely - but he collapses onto the steps outside the library, puts his head in his hands as he thinks about what he's just said, what he's just revealed: _I can't._

::::::

He hears the door close and the sound of footsteps. They slow then stop completely when they're near him. He brings his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around himself.

"Go back inside," he says, hoping that it's not just air he's talking to. Hoping that it is.

A pause, and then, "You alright?"

He shrugs his shoulders.

"They all know now, don't they." He feels a ripple of humiliation. They all know, and that means that they can tell people. Their families, their friends. Other rotters. Other humans. That's a long, long list of people who'll know about him. Once news has spread - _gossip_ \- there's no way of stopping it. It infects everything.

"No one knows anything."

He's angry at that, reignited enough that he spins round and faces Brendan, clambering to his feet. He jabs with his hands. He gets like that when he's frustrated or furious, like he's fighting an invisible opponent, _jab jab jab_ like it'll make him feel better.

"They all know. Or they're going to know soon, because it's obvious, isn't it? It's fucking obvious." He used to think he was so good at hiding it. It was one of the few skills he had, avoiding situations like that, making sure that he never had to read or write in front of people. It sounded difficult to avoid, but he'd perfected it over the years. He knew how to get around it, until today. Today he'd been helpless. Felt helpless.

Brendan looks concerned - concerned for him - but that can't be it, can it? It must be something else. Pity.

"Tony's going to think you've run off. Go back inside," Ste says, firm this time.

"He knows I'm here."

 _Of course he does._ He'll think that Brendan coming out here is a good thing. Maybe he thinks that he'll wind Ste up about it all, that he'll play right into his hands and give him another reason why they'd all be better off without the rotter.

Except he's not trying to wind him up. Not yet.

"Come to gloat, have you?" Ste says, because he may as well get this over with if that's what Brendan's here to do.

There's an almost undetectable shake of Brendan's head.

"You know what your problem is, Steven?"

"There's only one?"

"You're too proud. You don't ever ask for help."

"Stop fucking about." Ste makes a move to walk past him, but Brendan follows him, mirrors him.

"I'm not fucking about. Why didn't you ever tell anyone?"

"About what?"

"About... about the difficulties you have."

"So now I have difficulties? Thanks." It's all Ste can hear now, all he can think. He's a _difficulty_.

"You know what I mean."

Ste thinks he does, thinks that he didn't mean it like that, but it's _him_ : it's his own self that's twisting things, that's making everything worse, everything an insult.

"Wasn't there... I don't know, a teacher?"

Ste can see him grasping for answers, for some sort of solution. He doesn't know why he'd even want to try this hard.

"They didn't care, Brendan." He's not being self pitying. It's a fact. They didn't. On the surface they'd tell Pauline that they were worried about him and the fact that he kept missing lessons; on the inside Ste suspected that they were relieved when he didn't show up for school. It was quieter without him. It was better.

"Your parents?"

Ste shakes his head, the only answer that he feels capable of giving.

"I'm not too proud. What you said before... I'm not. There's just no one who..."

"I do."

Ste stops. It's not entirely unlike how he felt when Brendan had attacked him at the treatment centre; the shock of it, the way it had rendered him unable to move, to react.

Except now there's no pain. There's only hope.

He starts to speak, has to clear his throat and steady himself.

"Why are you being so..."

"So what?"

"Nice to me."

"Aren't I always?" Brendan says, all gleaming teeth and false innocence. It doesn't suit him. Not after what he just said. Not after the sincerity of it.

"No. You're not." He looks at Brendan: _Please tell me something real. Something that's true._

"Because you don't deserve it."

"Don't deserve what?"

"To beat yourself up about this." It's Brendan's turn to move past him; he must believe that Ste's not going to run away. He sits at the same spot that Ste was moments ago, knees drawn to his chest in the same position. He looks younger than his years. "If you're going to beat yourself up about something, do it about how useless you are at trying to attack me in a cage when _you're_ the one with the gun." His words flow easier now: they're on safe ground again. "Or how terrible you are at spying without being seen. Or how easy it would have been for me to kill you in that alleyway. Or -"

"Alright, I get the message." He sits next to him, crosses his arms. "You don't have to go on."

"I'm just saying."

"And you love saying it, don't you?"

Ste can see Brendan's gum when he smiles at him. He wonders if he should be disgusted by it, but he's not.

"Just a little." Brendan holds out his thumb and finger at _little_ , molds them into the right shape.

Ste thinks he won't bring it up again, but he does.

"He was out of line."

Ste says nothing. He sees a woman pushing a buggy walking past the library and glancing their way; he wonders what she sees when she looks at them.

"He's wrong." He says it with such conviction that it startles Ste.

"He _is_ wrong." He's not sure that he believes it, and to him it sounds more like he's trying to convince the both of them, but all the things he should have said back there are forming in his mind. He hates that it's only afterwards that it happens; only when it's too late. It wouldn't have the same effect if he went back inside and had it out with Matthew now. He's lost his chance.

"I know."

"I can read. I just... can't do it very well. And when I write... I know what I want to put down. The words, and that. It just doesn't always come out the way I want it to."

It sounds like he's trying to excuse it, and it's making him feel even more stupid. Everyone he knows can write. Everyone he knows can read. It's just him who can't.

"Why didn't you tell anyone about me? When you found out... You knew already, didn't you? You worked it out, so why didn't you tell the others?"

"I'm not a snitch."

"No, don't say that. That's not the reason why. This isn't school. And you'd do it to the others, wouldn't you? Maybe not about this, but if it was something else... Malachy, or Rhys, if you found something out. You'd tell on them, I know you would."

More people pass; more people look at them. They must appear strange, huddled outside like this when it's almost dark.

"It's not something to be ashamed of."

 _You're just saying that_ , Ste wants to tell him. _You're just trying to make me feel better._

But since when has Brendan Brady ever tried to make him feel better? This isn't Amy. This isn't Tony. Brendan doesn't have to say or do anything.

"But -"

Brendan makes a noise like he wants him to stop talking, a kind of clicking of his tongue and then a sigh. Ste watches as he digs around in his pocket for his phone and starts to type something.

He's being ignored. He's being ignored for a _text message_. Ste's too shocked to say anything, but not too shocked to stop him from leaning over and trying to see who Brendan's contacting. He's expecting to see Carmel's name on the screen, and something sickening being written - _tonight's the night_ , Jacqui had said - but Brendan's stopping him from seeing, keeping the phone just out of his reach.

All of a sudden the typing stops, and Brendan hands the phone over. The message is still on the screen.

"What are you doing?" Ste asks, confused now.

"Read it."

"Brendan -"

"Read it."

Frowning, Ste looks at the screen.

 _Want a ride home?_

He looks back at Brendan. He doesn't know what's happening.

"I'm waiting."

"Yes." Ste's mouth is dry. He wets his lips, stares at the screen again. The message is definitely there, and that's definitely what it says. He's not imagining it. "A ride would be good. Ta."

"See." Brendan gets to his feet, brushes down the back of his trousers and cranes his head round, trying to inspect them for dust. He must be satisfied; he faces the front again, and you'd never know that he'd been sitting on the step, his knees drawn up to him like how a kid would do for comfort.

"What?"

"You can read."

"Yeah, but -"

 _That doesn't count._ He's interrupted from saying it, Brendan cutting across him.

"Ready?"

Ste looks towards the library.

"Don't we have to tell the others?"

"They'll be going now too."

"But I should see Tony." He always says goodbye to him. He knows he shouldn't leave things like that, where the defining memory Tony will have of work today is him shouting and storming out. But he doesn't want to go back inside, doesn't want everyone to be looking at him. Brendan's car is parked nearby - Ste can see it from where they are - and it'll be warm there. He could be home soon. He can forget about this day, burying it with all the others he wants to erase.

He doesn't argue when Brendan asks him again if he's coming. They walk the short distance to his car, and when they get in Ste fiddles with the radio, is ready to tune it to the station that he usually listens to. He finds he doesn't have to; it's already set to it.

He sits back. All the cars he's been in have been small, unspectacular, and there's nearly always been something wrong with them: a smashed windscreen or a dodgy headlight, or cars that have been incapable of starting at all. This one feels luxurious in comparison. It's got one of those open roofs, and Ste tries to imagine Brendan driving in the summer, winding it down and wearing the same sunglasses that he's worn before. People he passes might look at him and not even see that he's a rotter. When Ste looks across at him, Brendan focused on the road ahead, he wonders if he could make the same mistake. Yes, he thinks. Yes, he could.

He looks at the clock on the dashboard. It's just gone after six. It won't take long to drop him home, and then Brendan will have hours ahead of him in which to take Carmel out. He could go out in the clothes he's wearing if he wanted to - he's dressed up enough to look like he's made an effort, but casual enough to not look like he's going to an interview - or he could go home, get changed. Ste wonders if he goes through a routine like he does before a date: puts product in his hair, tries on different outfits, puts aftershave on. He can't imagine him going to all that trouble, but he must have done, once. He must have impressed Eileen enough for her to want to marry him. He must have done something right.

They're near Ste's flat when he starts thinking it. _Ask him._ He rolls down the window and does what's become something of a habit now, staring out of it and kidding himself that his thoughts can float away in the wind. They don't. _Ask him to stay. Ask him to stay with me._

He knows he can't. Bringing Brendan into his flat is out of the question. He's never brought a rotter home, and Ste's not sure that Amy's kindness towards Jacqui would extend to Brendan. The thought of introducing her to the rotter he has to kill makes him feel ill; he can't do that. He won't, even if she'll never know. And it's not just her - it's _him_. Ste's not sure if he wants it either: Brendan in his flat, in his world in a way that he's never been before. It's one thing to see him at work. He's just about getting used to Brendan knowing where he lives too, but the idea of Brendan sitting on his sofa is so bizarre that he could laugh at it. The two don't mix.

The only other choice he has is to take Brendan out somewhere. He could text Amy, feed her some excuse that's necessary so she won't worry, and then he could pick somewhere, anywhere. The club they went to before comes to him immediately; no one had seen them together there the last time (not that Ste knows about, anyway) and it's dark enough that he feels cut off from everything and everyone else. It's easier than going to the pub or to get a coffee. Easier than being forced to make smalltalk because there's no music, and easier than being in constant fear that he'll see someone he knows.

He doesn't know if Brendan will buy it. A night out with Carmel - especially the one she seems to be planning - is far more tempting than a night out with him, but he's got to try. He's got to do _something_. There's still something about it all that he doesn't trust, a gut feeling, and he'll never be able to forgive himself if he wakes up tomorrow and find out that something's happened to her, that Brendan's hurt her.

"Do you want to get a drink?"

There's silence - far too long for Ste's liking - and he's about to take it back, laugh it off.

"Where?"

It's not entirely dismissive. It's curious, and it encourages him.

"That club. You know, the one we went to before."

"Where you tried and failed to spy on me?"

"Yes," Ste says begrudgingly, sensing that he's never going to be allowed to forget about it.

Brendan seems to think it over. Or maybe he's just pretending to, taking pleasure in making Ste sweat, drawing it out for as long as he can.

"Okay."

He hadn't thought it would be that easy.

"Okay?" He repeats back.

"Didn't think I'd be going to a club with someone dressed like that, but..."

He's still in his uniform. He hadn't thought. All he's got on underneath is a thin white t-shirt, the fabric stretched from years of use. It'll have to do; Brendan's right, he can't go to a club dressed head to toe in something which marks him out as one of the HVF. He'll attract unwanted attention, especially next to Brendan. Not everyone will be as understanding as Elizabeth. They won't get it, won't see why he's with a rotter, and he won't know how to explain it to them.

"I'll stash it away somewhere." He realises as he says it that he almost sounds ashamed. "The trousers aren't bad, are they?" They're army style, a khaki green. He could pass them off as something else, just.

"They'll do."

Right. They're actually going to do this. It doesn't feel real. He thought Brendan would take longer to warm to the idea, if at all. He's spent the whole day with him, and yet he's still willing to give up his time to go to a club. He doesn't say anything about Carmel, doesn't bring up anything about having to leave at a particular time. He doesn't tell Ste that he needs to phone her, cancel the whole thing.

He needs to make sure before he goes anywhere with him.

"You don't have any plans do you?"

It's the perfect opportunity for Brendan to tell him.

He shakes his head, doesn't even take a beat to think about it.

"No plans, no."

Jacqui must have been wrong. There was no date tonight; maybe there isn't even going to be another one. It could have been something casual - a few drinks here and there, nothing serious, before they'd both decided that it wasn't worth it.

He could cancel this. Tell Brendan that he's made a mistake, that he's forgot he has plans. Now that he's sure that Brendan wasn't going to see Carmel, there's no risk there.

He wonders if Brendan would be disappointed. He almost does it, almost says, _No, I can't,_ just to see if he would be.

"I'll just text Amy, and then..." He gets his phone out, holds it out of arms reach but he can still feel Brendan looking at it. When he glances at him he's looking away, out of the car window, but when Ste starts typing out a message he can feel it again, that curious stare, that feeling that he's being watched.

 _Have to stay a bit later for work. Won't be long._

If Brendan is looking then he'll see the lie there. Ste waits for the questions to start: Why the story? Why pretend he's at work? Why not tell her the truth?

Ste wouldn't know what to say. He can't say he's with a friend. He doesn't want Brendan to see him sending that.

He adds a kiss at the end of the message, and the feeling of being watched intensifies. A justification builds up in him, and he doesn't know why. He doesn't have to defend himself. He can put a kiss at the end of a message to the mother of his kids. Why wouldn't he? But still everything Brendan's said about Amy, about their relationship, comes back to him.

He pockets his phone. The lie has been told. It's too late for him to go back now.

"Are you going to drive or what?"

The engine starts with a roar as Brendan turns the car back around.


	22. Chapter 22

He changes in the car. He can't stomach the thought of doing it when they're in the club. Even the few moments it would take for him to pass from the entrance to the toilets feels like a lifetime in his mind, with Brendan by his side and everyone's eyes on them both.

Humiliated. That's how he feels when he thinks of it.

It's a tight squeeze in the front and he holds his breath when he wrangles his way out of his uniform to get to his t-shirt underneath. The way the uniform's designed feels entrapping, and when the car jerks suddenly he'd hit the dashboard if it wasn't for his seatbelt.

There's silence when he gets the uniform off at last. He's all too aware that his bare arms are on show. They're tense, rigid, and the thin layer of cotton that clings to his skin feels insubstantial. It feels like nothing. He doesn't dare look at Brendan; he's afraid that he might be staring at him, at his body, and he's afraid that he might not be.

He can feel goosebumps on his skin. Suddenly it all seems like a terrible idea; he's sure his trousers don't look normal. _Property of the Human Volunteer Force_ , that's what they look like. He sits back in his seat, reminding himself that it'll be darker in the club, that people won't be concentrating on what he's wearing or who he is if any of them would ordinarily recognise him. With any luck they'll be too drunk to notice.

The Loft is busier than he thought it would be. At first they only pass a few people on their drive down, but when they reach the club he can tell it's packed, and he feels a twinge of annoyance. _It's a weekday, what are you all doing here? Go home._

"You worried?"

Ste starts at the voice beside him.

"What?"

"You worried you won't get in?"

"What do you mean?"

"Should have brought ID, Steven."

His panic turns to irritation.

"Don't be stupid." He unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out of the car and makes sure he slams the door. He doesn't look over to see whether Brendan's smirking; he already knows he will be. "You'll be lucky if they let _you_ in. Might not want you to cramp their style, you know? Dad dancing and all that."

That earns him a slam of Brendan's own door.

Dancing: that's not something Ste's thought of until now. He can't imagine Brendan doing it, isn't even sure what his reaction would be if he did. But a couple of drinks into it, and if Brendan gets relaxed enough...

No. He still can't picture it.

They wait in the queue with everyone else. He doesn't know who's more nervous, him or Brendan. He tries to make smalltalk, but Brendan's not having any of it. He's quiet while they stand in line, looking round at his surroundings and the people like he's not sure what he's doing here. Ste's half expecting him to bolt, to be left alone.

He's already forming excuses in his mind, how he can get out of this. He could sneak off to the toilets and pretend that Amy's called him, needs him home straight away. He can't spend an entire night like this, neither of them saying anything.

They shuffle forward. There's only a few people in front of them now, presumably a couple from the way they're all over each other. Brendan has to push the guy forward to get him to take a step closer to the doorman. The guy looks around, looks ready to start something, but one look at Brendan and he seems to change his mind. He keeps his hand on his girlfriend's waist but doesn't try to kiss her again. It looks like protection now, the way he's touching her.

Then it's them, in front. Ste can hear the music coming from the club, can see the lights pulsing. It feels like everyone behind them has stopped talking, are looking at them instead. He tries to remember how Brendan's cover up mousse had looked, but it hadn't been bright enough in the car to see it, and he doesn't want to look now, doesn't want to draw attention to it. They'll see though, these doorman. They'll see that he's not human. Anyone can see that if they look close enough.

He's waiting for things to kick off. For them to be told to get lost, or worse: for the doormen to start a scene until everyone wades in, and before they know it there's a whole mob of them shouting and telling them they're not wanted here. The distance from here to the car seems longer than Ste had first thought; what if they can't get back in time? What if they're cornered? Or even if they do escape, that doesn't guarantee anything. People here could find out where they live, could track them down.

His heart's rattling. _Please. If there's anyone up there, if you even exist, please._

They're nodded in. Ste can see Brendan walking inside, and there's a fraction of a second until he follows him, picking up the speed and daring to believe that this is real, that they've actually been allowed in. He was so prepared for what felt like the inevitable that now he doesn't know what to do with himself. It shouldn't be this way. He shouldn't be looking to Brendan for guidance, but he does. He finds himself following the rotter's lead, both of them heading towards the bar, steering themselves through the crowd.

He looks to see if anyone recognises him: a sudden shift in the atmosphere, a cease in the dancing as they take in what they're seeing. It doesn't come. They're merely an annoyance to people, him and Brendan, trying to maneuver their way past without shoving into anyone. Brendan's shoulders are so wide that Ste's surprised he manages it.

The bar's busy tonight. It may be a weekday but it doesn't seem to be stopping anyone. He's forgotten what that's like, forgotten that for some people this is a regular thing, having a drink, having a dance. A few pints at the pub is the closest he comes to it these days, and even then it's rare that he won't be surrounded by the rest of the HVF.

He's expecting to be waiting a long time for a drink; there's already a queue, and there are girls joining all the time who Ste guesses will be served first if the dazzling smiles they're giving to the barmen are anything to go by.

Brendan seems to have other ideas.

"What are you having?"

He's got his money out from his trouser pocket already, a crisp twenty.

"I'm paying." Ste reaches into his own pocket; all he can feel is a loose jangling of change. He doesn't care though. He'll count it all out if he has to, as long as Brendan knows at the end of it that he can afford to pay his own way. He's not a charity case.

"What are you having?" Brendan repeats, as though he hasn't said anything. "One of those?" He points towards one of the beers in the fridge behind the bar, the same kind that Ste had drunk the last time they'd been in this club together.

"Yeah, but -"

Brendan clicks his fingers, silencing him. Ste doesn't know how he does it, but it seems to silence everything else too. It's not a lack of noise, but it's a lack of importance for anything else but them. The music's still playing, and the crowd are still talking and laughing, but throughout it all one of the guys behind the bar looks their way, Brendan cutting through all of it.

He's about to ignore them, turn back to the rest of the people he's yet to serve, but Brendan clicks his fingers again. It's enough to annoy the guy, enough to make him come closer.

This is the last thing Ste had wanted. They were meant to be keeping a low profile. He should have known that Brendan wouldn't manage it, that it would only be a matter of time before he'd piss someone off.

"Listen, mate -" The barman says _mate_ like a warning.

"Two beers." He holds out the twenty, holds it right up to the light so the paper shines. "You can keep the change."

The guy looks tempted. Some of the crowd are still vying for his attention, unimpressed by the interruption, but some are looking their way, as though wanting to see what happens next.

"I can't just..."

"I think you'll find you can." Brendan gets a hold of the guy by the scruff of his shirt, drags him closer over the bar. It's not enough to get him thrown out of this place if one of the doormen were looking, but it is enough to make Ste get a hold of Brendan by the arm, try to make him stop.

He can hear whispering now. _Is he...? He's one of them, isn't he? Never seen a rotter in here before._

"Brendan, please." Ste holds him tighter. "Forget the drinks. We can just wait." _Or maybe we should go_ is what he wants to say.

Brendan moves his arm out of reach.

"Two of those," he says, pointing at the beers behind him. "There's a good lad."

He lets go, smooths out the barman's shirt. The barman looks flustered, looking at the crowd with wide eyes like he isn't quite sure how he got here, but then he reacts, fast: gets the beers from the fridge, puts the money in the till, pockets the change, yells above the whispering and the music, "Next." Back to work as usual.

"Good," Brendan says. "Good." He nods, satisfied, offering Ste one of the beers, saying "What?" when he makes no move to take it.

"You can't just... What you did, it's not..."

"Not what?"

Ste struggles for the right words. One look at the bar tells him that they've already been forgotten about, but he can't shake the feeling that they're not just going to get away with something like that.

"Intimidating people, it's..."

"Are you angry that I intimidated them, or that they might be talking about you?"

"What?" Ste laughs, but it's not enough to throw Brendan off.

"You look terrified. You know that?"

"No I don't." He wishes he could say it with more conviction, but he can't. He _feels_ terrified.

"Scared they'll see you with me, are you?"

"No, but... you didn't have to do that, did you? Make things so _difficult_. Why do you always have to..."

"You got your drink, didn't you?" Brendan shrugs, starts drinking from his own bottle, still holding Ste's untouched one.

"That's not the point."

"Come on, don't tell me you've never done that before." He elaborates when Ste looks blank. "Spooked someone to get what you want. Don't tell me, because I won't believe you."

He's right. He can't tell him.

"That's different." It's all he's got, and it's where his argument falls apart. Brendan knows he's won. He holds both the beer bottles out to him, and Ste takes them. He isn't prepared for what happens next, for Brendan walking away towards the exit.

"Brendan." He's too quiet, his voice drowned out by the music. The rotter's walking away, close enough to the door now that soon he'll disappear completely.

There's a moment when Ste considers letting him leave. It's _his_ fault: his fault for not being able to get a drink like a normal person, for making everything into a game, something that can never be normal.

But he doesn't know where he'll go. Just because he wasn't going to go and see Carmel tonight doesn't mean he can't change his mind. And even if he doesn't, they'll still be back at square one tomorrow, back to the silence and the tension and the hostility. Back to having to tell Danny and Warren that he's failed, _again_ , because even a rotter thinks he's too good for him.

"Brendan." He's louder this time, loud enough to be heard, but he's still ignored.

He pushes through the crowd, shoving until he can feel the dirty looks thrown his way, getting caught up enough that he's sure Brendan's already gone. But then there's a clearing, and he takes his chance; darts forward and puts his hand on Brendan's shoulder, solid and real and unwavering, and turns him around.

"Don't go." He's out of breath with the urgency, and the music's pounding in his head, and Brendan's looking at him like he could hit him.

"You're ashamed."

He doesn't deny it.

"Stay," he says, and he drinks from his beer: _I'm going to stay_ , and he waits and he waits.

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Ste nods, still doesn't quite believe it, and he only starts to feel better when Brendan moves further and further away from the door. They're in luck, there's some spare seats upstairs, and they collapse into them like they've been through the wars.

He's got him here. Now comes the hard part: what to say.

"How's your sister?"

As openings go it's not the best, and they both know it. Brendan makes a face.

"She's fine. How's Amy?"

Ste makes a face back at him.

"She's fine."

Brendan drinks from his bottle, looks out at the crowd. No one seems to be paying any attention to them. Ste has to stop himself from straining to see if anyone's looking; he doesn't want to risk Brendan getting up and walking away again. That's if he's not already in danger of doing it from the silence stretching out before them.

"Want another one?" Brendan nods over at Ste's beer, and it's only as he does it that Ste realises that he's finished the bottle. He almost picks it up just to check, but he knows he's prone to doing this when he doesn't know what to say; it's a distraction, something to steady him.

"Yeah, ta."

Brendan must read his mind, because he says before he heads to the bar, "Don't worry, I'll be less _intimidating_."

Ste's not sure if he believes him, but he lets him go. He watches him, and he thinks Brendan really will wait his turn this time, but the guy behind the bar up here must be more tuned in than the one downstairs; he doesn't hesitate in letting Brendan push past the queue.

Brendan rejoins him, hands the bottle over.

"Thanks." It feels strange, this attempt at politeness. He's not used to having someone buying him drinks.

They don't clink glasses. They wouldn't go that far.

"I really shouldn't have another after this." Even as he's saying it Ste knows he will. He's like this on the rare few occasions that he has a night out; it's as though he has to go the full mile, knowing that he won't be having another one anytime soon.

"Alright this place, isn't it?" It seems the done thing to say, but in all honesty he thinks it's a bit of a dive. He knew there had been a reason why he'd rarely gone here all these years.

Brendan shrugs, looks around like he's thinking the same thing as Ste is.

"Could be better."

It's something about the way Brendan says it that makes Ste press it. Or maybe it's the way he's looking round like a sculptor surveying a piece; it's more than just a glance.

"Oh yeah?"

Brendan drinks, nods.

"How?"

Again that shrug, like he doesn't know. But when he speaks he's fluent, quick. Like the opposite is true; like he does know.

"The toilets for one. And the bar, the way it's managed." He looks around, assessing. "The security look like they're sleeping on their feet."

"How do you know all this stuff?" He hadn't noticed any of it. Sure, the place was shabby. It looked like it could do with a lick of paint and some new bar stools, but he couldn't judge. His flat is worse. It makes him squirm, self conscious. If Brendan's thinking these things about here, then what would he say if he saw where he lives?

Not that he ever will see it. Ste still has to believe that the creaking floorboard comments were all a lucky guess.

"I don't know."

He's dismissive. Too dismissive.

"No, go on." Ste's alert now, interested. He's touched upon something. He can feel it.

"Stop it."

Brendan could have said _it's nothing_. He could have said _I'm just fooling around, pretending to know these things._ But it's the complete denial - angry, defensive - that makes Ste know that it's something.

"We're meant to be, like, talking."

He expects Brendan to deny it - _No we're not_ \- because this isn't what they're meant to do. They agreed to go for a drink, but Brendan never said anything about them getting to know each other better. This isn't what this was supposed to be.

He doesn't get a denial. All he gets is a "So?"

"So... you're not telling me everything, are you?"

 _Everything_ is pushing it. _Everything_ is not what Ste wants. Everything means the truth, full disclosure, both ways. Everything means telling him exactly what Danny and Warren want him to do. Everything means telling him that he's agreed to it.

But still he wants Brendan to tell him.

"Used to work in one, didn't I."

It can't be that the music's suddenly been put up louder. It can't be that that makes Ste strain to hear him over it, that makes him lean forward and wish that everything around him would cease to move, cease to talk, would just _stop_ so he can hear this.

"You used to work in a club?" He's not doing what Brendan is; he's not diluting his words, isn't trying to drown them out.

Brendan doesn't say anything. He doesn't deny it.

"When? Was it when you were..."

 _Alive._

He knows it must have been. But it's giving him that picture again, that picture of a real Brendan, a human Brendan, and he's tried to push and push it away until it no longer exists. It works, sometimes. Other times, not so much.

A nod. A look away. The cover up mousse looks faded in this light; maybe it's the heat, or the fact that it's been on Brendan's skin all day now. He wonders if Brendan has to carry it around for touch ups, and Ste almost asks him about it, but what would he say? _Go to the bathroom and put it on._

He can't do that. He won't.

He doesn't know how far he can go with these questions. He's aware that Brendan must think he knows too much already: about his children, about Eileen, about his sister. Details about his former job doesn't seem as intrusive in comparison, but it's another missing piece, another thing that Brendan's lost.

"Sounds good. Sounds... must have been fun, working in a club."

Brendan looks at him like he knows what he's doing; knows that he's using flattery as a way of easing him out of his silence. Brendan must take pity on him, because it works.

And it's not a complete lie: working in a club _does_ sound like fun. More fun than his life, where he never knows if he's going to live or die. Sometimes he wonders how different things could have been if he'd chosen that different path, where rowdy customers were all he'd have to worry about.

He'll never know now.

"Had its moments."

Ste resists the urge to ask more. With Brendan he's learnt that sometimes there are moments when you need to step back, when you need to wait for him to readjust, get used to this. Get used to talking.

"I was the manager."

Ste isn't surprised. Somehow he can't imagine Brendan playing along to someone else's tune, following their orders and answering to them. The undead Brendan, yes - through no other choice. But the alive Brendan, the one who _did_ have a choice - he would have been the boss. He would have been the one in control.

"In Ireland?"

"Ireland, and other places." He doesn't offer where these other places are.

"I've never really travelled. Never really... you know. Done stuff like that."

Brendan looks at him like it's nothing, like his awe is misplaced, but it's not. Managing a club, moving from place to place, being part of something. Brendan did all that. It's more than he's ever done, more than he ever will do.

"Have you got any pictures?"

"Why would I?"

"Didn't you ever want to take any?"

Brendan looks at him blankly, and Ste struggles to swallow down his disappointment. He wants to see. He wants to know what this life of Brendan's was like, what _he_ was like. He wants all the information he can get; if there were pictures then he knows he would pore over them, and texts, and letters, and stories. He feels a sudden surge of jealousy that there are people in the world who have access to these things: Eileen and Cheryl and people who Ste hasn't even met yet. He wonders if they even know how rare this is, how it marks them out. They've seen a side to Brendan that no one else has ever got to see.

 _Tell me,_ Ste wants to say. _Tell me what kind of boss you were. Were you like I think you were - a bastard, and manipulative with it too, so your staff never had the guts to say anything against you? And were there also those moments when you said something, did something which made them think that there was a chink in your armour, and if they just waited long enough and patiently enough then they'd get to see the cracks of light that would shine through?_

"You got pictures of the Human Volenteer Force?"

"What?" Ste's disarmed by the question, by hearing Brendan talk of his job so plainly. He doesn't think he's ever heard Brendan mention the HVF like that before, in full.

"You in your uniform. You with the others."

"No. Course not." Except he realises what Brendan's getting at; knows that though his job and Brendan's former one may be miles apart, there could be one common denominator. "They're not the kind of memories I want to keep."

"Exactly."

Ste hasn't got a comeback to that. _Fair enough_ , he thinks. Fair enough that Brendan would rather forget his life back then, that he wouldn't want photographic proof of it. In a way it's the better alternative; better than staring at an old picture and remembering the person you used to be and how that was taken away. He's seen it with Sarah, seen her glancing at the photos Mike has kept up around the house like they're a shrine to a girl she wishes she could get back. If she could reach into the frames and be that girl again then she would, no question.

Brendan doesn't seem to have that same certainty, and it strikes Ste that not once has he seen him mourn for his old life.

"Where were the other clubs? You said there was one in Ireland and other places. Where?"

His heart skips a beat when he thinks that Brendan's going to say it: _Manchester_. He doesn't know why the thought makes him nervous; there must be roughly ten years between them he guesses, so Brendan wouldn't have been running a club when Ste was still living there. He would have been long gone at the time, living in Chester by then. But still the idea of it takes root, and he's aware of his mind forming scenarios. Brendan working close to the old flat he lived in with Pauline. Brendan visiting the places that Ste used to visit. The chance that Brendan might have known the same people he did. What would have happened if they'd met back then, him and Brendan? Ste knows he would have been scared of him, although he never would have admitted it. It wouldn't have just been the fact that Brendan was older; it would have been the knowledge that Brendan was more powerful. The same knowledge that Ste has now, even during the times that he has a gun strapped to him.

"Liverpool," Brendan says, and Ste doesn't know if it's relief or disappointment he feels, or a confusing mixture of both.

"Never been there."

He doesn't tell Brendan that even a place like that had seemed exciting to him when he was younger. The unknown. A distant dream outside of Manchester, outside of the four walls that enclosed him. Pauline had never taken him away, and each place he heard about took on a exotic air. He remembers that Liverpool had seemed like a kind of paradise, just the idea of it. The idea of anywhere but where he was.

"What was it like?" Ste says. Brendan's answer matters too much to make him worry that he's bordering on desperate with his questioning. _Tell me_ , he wants to say. _Tell me everything about this world that I never got to be in._

"You've finished your drink." Brendan stands up, reaches over and takes Ste's glass, and the moment's lost. "Same again?"

"No, I better not." He curses himself for finishing it, for giving Brendan an opportunity to get away from the conversation and head back down to the bar. Although he knows that if it wasn't this it would be something else. He was looking for an excuse. Any excuse.

"Be back in a second," Brendan says, and Ste believes him. He no longer thinks that he's going to run away.

Ste goes to the bathroom, and by the time he returns there are two drinks on the table. He doesn't do what he should do, which is tell Brendan that he's had enough already. He sits down, raises his drink in Brendan's direction and clinks glasses, forgetting that he isn't meant to be doing that. Forgetting that he isn't meant to be enjoying himself.

::::::

It takes him a while to admit that he's liking this.

He can't remember the last time, can't remember when he drank and felt this good, when he wasn't doing it to forget something. He can't remember when he had someone with him like this, not egging him on as part of a game, not having an end objective to get him drunk. Just being with him like this, talking with him like this. Not about work. Not about the kids. It's stupid things, silly things they're going on about, and he'd forgotten how liberating that can feel.

They get another round in. Ste wants to pay but he hasn't got any more cash on him, and Brendan doesn't cause a scene; just ignores his babbling about _You have another drink, this'll be my last,_ and buys them both more. And more. Ste's got to the stage where he feels like he's blanketed in a warm cocoon, and everything's better, and everything that he thought wouldn't be okay just might be, in the end.

He laughs louder too, at nothing in particular, and he's dimly aware of Brendan telling him that he sounds ridiculous when doing so. Maybe the drink is masking the malice too, because he doesn't hear any in Brendan's voice when he says it. Amused, he sounds. Amused by him.

He doesn't look at the time. He doesn't look at his phone, or to see if Amy's called. He'd already told her that he would be late home from work, and he hasn't been _that_ long, has he? He's thinking it'll be better if she's in bed by the time he gets back anyway; better that she doesn't see him like this, doesn't ask questions.

He's asking questions though. Plenty of them.

"You and Carmel, then?" He's smiling as he says it, and moving closer and giving Brendan what's almost a nudge, like this is something they do, like they're _pals_ in on a secret, and all the worry he's felt about seeing them together seems to have melted away. He wants to laugh at himself, wants to know why he took it all so seriously. Why he'd felt that feeling when he'd seen her kiss him on the cheek. Why the thought of them spending a night together had made him scared enough to need to stop it. _Why?_ Why had he wasted all his energy on them? He can't imagine Brendan, _this_ Brendan, hurting her. His fears about what Danny and Warren would do to her have come to nothing too. It was all so unnecessary.

"What about us?" Brendan's speaking levelly; it's almost unfair how composed he is compared to Ste, how much better he can hold his drink.

"You know." Another almost-nudge, another smile. "What's going on there? She's a pretty girl, isn't she."

"Is she?"

"You know she is."

"Your type." Not a question.

"What's that meant to mean?"

"Blondes. Amy, Veronica."

"Rae," Ste adds, sees Brendan turn his head swiftly in his direction.

"Who the fuck is Rae?"

There's a part of him that's screaming _stop_. It's another person, another fragment of his life that Brendan now has access to, when he already has far too much.

But he's too far gone to care.

"My ex."

He pictures her as he last saw her, not in person, but in his fantasies. As someone to use, a body to get him off, a means to an end. He feels guilty when he thinks about it, not only about what she'd say if she knew, but also about what the fantasy had morphed into: a man, faceless and nameless, but as real to him in that moment as Rae had once been. More real.

The line of questioning has switched. It's Brendan who wants to know more now, and the things he's asking seem to be for someone else. Ste knows he did those things, slept with those girls, but he can't muster up what it would take to recall the encounters: a certain mixture of laddishness and bravado that he doesn't feel he possesses. Not anymore.

Ste holds his drink up, an attempt to silence Brendan.

"We were talking about you and Carmel. Don't change the subject."

Brendan laughs at the way his drink sloshes over the edge.

"Come on," Ste prompts, and for a minute he remembers the way things used to be with Justin: the attempts to find out about whoever it was that he was dating that month, and the way he'd get embarrassed, reluctant to tell him anything, before he'd give in after a few cans of beer and a particularly energetic Xbox game. There had been a certain kind of relief to it, a detangling that had come with exhaustion. They'd just been a couple of kids, teenagers, and that's all it was: child's play. It was before Ste had joined the HVF. Before he'd been in this club with this man, this _rotter_. The two things don't seem to exist side by side, and the memory flickers and fades almost as soon as it's formed.

"We're seeing each other. Having fun."

Ste can hear himself laughing as Brendan says it, still wrapped up in the idea that what they're doing here, the two of them, is normal. But there's a crack in his laughter like the sound of a radio losing its signal, a distortion, and the words repeat back to him, coming apart. _Having fun. Seeing each other._

Jacqui must have been wrong. Whatever she'd heard about them waiting, about them not having slept together yet, it must all be a lie. Ste would never put _fun_ and Brendan side by side. Brendan's talking about them, together. Him and Carmel, sleeping together. He must be.

He feels sober out of nowhere. Too sober. He drinks more, thinks that's the problem, but he knows that's not it; he'd felt nothing before Brendan had told him this. Arrogant he'd been, thinking that he no longer cared about the two of them. That there had been no reason to care to begin with. He'd been pushing Brendan, pushing himself, a challenge: _See how far you can go. See what you can say to me, and see if it stings._

"I should go." His drink's empty. He gets to his feet, unsteady, and the room spins as he expected it would. Still he presses on, still he ignores it and looks towards the stairs. His escape route.

He can hear Brendan trying to stop him, pull him back. He bites back, gives a defiant _Get off me,_ and it's like they're back to square one. Everything that happened tonight, everything that shifted, it's reverted back to the start. It's all been for nothing. This whole night, orchestrated to keep Carmel safe, shouldn't have happened. Turns out he's too late; turns out that Brendan's got to her before Ste could protect her.

Brendan's not giving up that easily. He seems to have realised that Ste's not going to stay, so he's going with him now, telling him he'll give him a lift home, and to not even try to argue. Ste's too tired to resist, and in the car he uses the state he's in to his own advantage, pretending he's more drunk than he is. He leans his head against the window - Brendan has opened them both to make up for the tightly packed heat of the club - and he stays in silence. He knows that it's not late yet, and that Brendan could still go and see Carmel, but he doesn't have the fight in him to stop it. There's nothing left to stop.

He opens his eyes when he realises the car's motionless.

"You okay?"

He can feel Brendan staring at him.

"Yeah. Just didn't realise how much I'd had to drink. Felt a bit sick, you know?"

"Want me to... I don't know, help you inside?"

"What?" He can feel himself panicking immediately, imagining Amy coming to the door and meeting Brendan. He doesn't even know what he'd say, or how he'd try to justify it. And she'd know then; she'd know when she sees Brendan in the papers in a few months time, dead, that there was a connection there. She'd put the pieces together, and what she'd come up with would be Ste being a murderer. Cold blooded. Not a killer of rabids, but a killer of rotters. She'd never forgive him.

"No," Ste says, sitting up straight now, his voice loud in the silence of the night. "No, it'll be fine. I can walk." Truthfully he's not so sure; he had wobbled as he'd left the club, and on the way to Brendan's car, and he's feeling progressively worse. But he'd rather collapse than have Brendan in his home. "I just need to sleep it off. I'll see you on Monday."

He risks a glance at Brendan, sees that he doesn't look entirely convinced, but he lets Ste go. He doesn't drive off though; he keeps a watchful eye on him, distracting Ste enough that he drops his keys as he reaches for them, has to scrabble around on the floor for them. He's half expecting Brendan to come out of the car and pick them up for him, but he's spared that danger - and it is a danger, would mean that Brendan's far closer to the front door than Ste would like.

He gives an awkward, forced wave, but still Brendan's staying there, watching, and it's then that Ste knows he's not going to go until he's inside. Holding his keys firmly this time, he opens the door and closes it behind him. The hallway's dark, but he doesn't switch on the lights; he leans against the door, listens, scarcely breathing, as he waits for the sound of the car driving away. It comes, and only then can Ste move, going into his bedroom, hardly able to believe that he's managed to make it there without an interruption. But when he looks at the time he understands why; it's later than he thought, and Amy must be asleep by now. She'll be angry with him tomorrow, tetchy, asking him why he came back so late, why she made him worry. But he can't give her the answer he wants to give, can't give her the truth: that time had ceased to mean anything tonight. That what Brendan had described with Carmel - _having fun_ \- had been Ste's experience too. Not sex. Just _fun_. Something he hasn't had in a long time.

But Brendan would have rather been with her. Buying her drinks, getting pissed with her. Dancing with her, maybe, although Ste can't quite conjure that image in his mind, can't picture it as anything but comical. But it doesn't matter; it all would have been with her, and that's the difference.

It's gone too far. He's over this. _Done_.

He's going to call Warren first thing tomorrow. This ends now, whatever Danny says. Ste doesn't care about their plan, about what they want. He's the one who's got to do it, and he's not going to wait any longer; not weeks or months or years. He's going to kill Brendan tomorrow, and then his life can begin. The life he's meant to have, him and Amy and the kids. He'll deal with whatever consequences he has to face - the remorse that may come, or Amy's questioning, or Cheryl's grief. He'll deal with it all, so long as this is it.

He's too tired to get changed out of his clothes. He gets underneath the covers, closes his eyes, and has the first full night of sleep he's had in a long time.

::::::

He must be dying.

That's his first thought as the light comes through the curtains and wakes him. He's been hit by a truck and he's lying in the middle of the road, and he's on his way out. There's no other explanation for the sensation he's feeling; no other explanation for the pressure in his skull. He waits, longs for the end to come so he can stop feeling like this.

Then the first fact seeps through to his consciousness: a road doesn't have pillows.

He sits up, feels the sickness come thick and fast.

The second fact: He's not dying. He's hungover. Or perhaps he hasn't reached that stage yet. Maybe he's still in the in between stage, still drunk. He's not entirely sure, but he knows he feels like hell.

He rushes to the bathroom, makes it to the toilet in time, sinking to his knees and lifting the seat as his stomach heaves. He means to be quiet, but it turns out his body has other ideas; he's violently sick, and when it's all over he's still shaking, pale, a ghost in the mirror.

He flushes the toilet, cleans himself up. He's chosen the right moment; the flat is empty, must be. He knows Amy would have been knocking on the bathroom door if she was here. However mad she might be with him after his absence last night, she wouldn't leave him like this. She must have taken the kids out. He uses the time to make himself presentable, but it's a struggle: his movements are slow, laboured, and he can smell the alcohol on his breath, a reminder of what he did last night. A reminder of what _they_ did, him and Brendan.

He wonders if Brendan's the same this morning; rushing to the bathroom, head banging, sweat clinging to his clothing. Ste doesn't know if Cheryl will be there, doesn't know if she has a job that she needs to be up and out for, but if she is then he can imagine her fussing over him. She'd attended to Ste enough - the tea, the biscuits, the sharing of clothes - and he'd been a complete stranger. With her own brother Ste can imagine the protectiveness, the care: a cold compress for his forehead like he's a child with a fever, and offering to make him anything that he can hold down. Plenty of water, and a gentle kind of teasing, knowing that he's done this to himself, but still looking at him with that unmistakable fondness that had been present between them.

 _Brendan._

At the thought of him comes the reminder of last night. Not the evening they'd had - not just that - but what had come after. The confirmation that he and Carmel were together. The drive home, the stumbling out of the car. The promise that he would call Warren, get it all sorted properly this time. No more excuses. No more basement visits to Danny, being subjected to whatever form of entertainment - punishment - that he happened to come up with that week. Today, he'd decided last night, was the day when he'd kill Brendan Brady.

He gets his phone out of the pocket of his trousers, forgetting for a moment that he hadn't slept in his pyjamas. He gets Warren's contact details up on the screen, and while he does it he's multitasking, rifling through his drawers for a clean t-shirt. The sound of the ringing on the other end of the line doesn't do anything to help his headache.

Warren picks up, barks a _Hello_. He doesn't like being interrupted on a Saturday; doesn't like being interrupted any day of the week.

"Can you talk?"

Ste can't predict Warren's reaction, doesn't know how much he'll kick off. He has to make sure he's alone for this. He has the distasteful image of Warren being in the middle of the pub when he announces that he's about to kill someone.

It shouldn't be important, but it is. Ste doesn't want it to be like that.

"Go on," Warren says, not attempting to hide his reluctance.

"I called to say..." He's got the phone in one hand, his other going through shirts, moving them aside, because nothing seems right today. Nothing seems good enough.

He can't lose his nerve. It's hard to say, hard to know that the reaction he's going to get isn't going to be a positive one, isn't going to be supportive, but his mind's made up. He remembers the conviction he'd felt last night that he was going to do this. He can't abandon that. Not now that he's so close.

"I know you're not going to like this, right, but..."

He stops. His hand closes around something; not his size, not his own. Brendan's vest.

He can see himself as he'd been back then, pushing the vest to the back of the drawer. He'd thought of it as out of sight, out of mind, but he'd been wrong. He's seen it now, can't tear his eyes away.

It feels warm, and he'd felt the warmth back then too. It had been a cold day, definitely not a day for summer clothes, but it had been a relief to change out of his soaking wet shirt and into this. Maybe it was the fact that it was several sizes too big; it had been comforting.

He can hear Warren on the other end of the line, distinctly irritated now and losing patience, especially at the idea that Ste's about to say something he's not going to like.

"Nothing." He swallows, his hand still on the vest, and then, because he has to come up with an explanation, he adds, "I thought I wouldn't be able to patrol next week, but it's fine."

"It better be. If you're going to try and get out of this -"

He tunes him out, still holds the phone to his ear but doesn't allow anything to resonate. He can't.

He touches the vest again, strokes a line down its material like he's making sure it's real, that it's still there, and then he closes the drawer with it still inside.


	23. Chapter 23

He used to live for the weekends, for the hours and the days that were all his. No patrols. No meetings. No Warren breathing down his neck, or the other guys' competence reminding him of the lack of his own. Those two days seemed apart from everything else. He'd get to sleep in, have breakfast with the kids. Take them out somewhere, watch them running round the park. Then dinner with Amy, curled up on the sofa, watching whatever was on TV - preferably something as trashy and unintentionally hilarious as they could find.

Sunday nights were notoriously bad, that slow ticking down of the clock when day would turn into night, and night would turn into morning. When he allowed himself to think of it for too long he'd be aware that he was spending his life counting down, wishing the days away. His entire existence seemed to revolve around waiting for something to be over. But when he thought of that, the sadness and bitterness of it overwhelmed him and he was so full of regret that it almost made him gasp.

He can't say that any more. He can't say that when he looks at his Saturday spread out before him he feels that same sense of relief. There's still that happiness, but with it is something else.

It feels strange, that's what it is: it feels strange not to be seeing Tony and Jacqui and Rhys, much as both of the rotters drive him mad with their ability to see right through his attempts to take charge. It feels strange not to be meeting in the middle of the village, and not to be taking the register, and not to hear the muttering and complaining, and not to witness the joy at the end of a long day when they can all go home at last.

It feels strange not to be seeing Brendan.

A few times Ste catches himself going on his phone and scrolling down to Brendan's contact details. He knows he should delete them. It's unlikely that anyone else will have access to his phone, but it's safer to get rid of the number on the off chance that they did. But the thought that he might need Brendan's number in the future stops him; that and the thought of having to go to the treatment centre and rifle through the files again.

He thinks about calling him. He knows he's not going to do it - he's not completely reckless - but still it plays on his mind, unwanted and incessant. He knows that Brendan couldn't possibly have found out what he was about to do, how with one phone call to Warren he could have changed the rotter's life. Taken away that life. He can see that it's paranoia, but it's real, as real to him as anything else, and suddenly the idea that Brendan knows everything doesn't seem so ridiculous.

Ste wouldn't apologise. He'd be making a mockery of his job, not to mention how pathetic it would sound: _I'm sorry that I was going to kill you._ And if Danny and Warren found out that he'd given the game away, it wouldn't just be Brendan who would die.

But he needs to know. He needs to know that nothing's changed. That Brendan couldn't have found out what he was going to do.

He needs to see him.

::::::

The problem is, he doesn't know what a rotter _does_ on the weekend, much less what Brendan would do.

He thinks back to how he'd been like this weeks ago; Brendan's life a mystery to him, walls built so high that Ste had no hope of seeing what was behind them. He thought things had changed, but he realises that he still hasn't got a clue. At least now he has more of an idea as to who he'd be with - Cheryl or Carmel - but both don't hold the answers that Ste's looking for. He can't go to Cheryl's flat, not again, not after he was lucky to not be found out the first time. He could get Jacqui's address to find out where Carmel lives, but he has no believable reason for visiting the McQueens. Jacqui would see right through his attempts at an excuse if he invented one; this isn't an amateur he's dealing with.

What he needs is pure chance: him and Brendan being in the same place at the same time. That'll be enough. Ste just needs to see him once, needs to see that everything's as it was.

He's scribbled a quick note at home, _Going into town_ \- not strictly the truth, but he doesn't think Amy will understand him staying in the village for hours on the off chance that he'll see Brendan. He's still grateful that he's managed to separate the two of them, that she has no idea who he is. Ste plans to keep it that way.

He goes to the cafe in the village. It's the first time he's been back since Brendan had found him in the bathroom, and Ste almost changes his mind before he even steps inside. It's déjà vu - even the guy behind the counter is the same, and Ste half expects everything else to be the same too; the girl from The Dog, and the way she couldn't get out of there fast enough when he'd turned her down. Going to the bathroom afterwards, thinking that he was on his own, thinking that he was going to be sick. Brendan being there. Brendan always being there.

He steps inside, looks around. The girl's not here this time, but maybe Ste can still have the rest; maybe Brendan will still walk inside.

Ste nods over to the guy behind the counter, and there's a flicker of recognition there. Ste's worried that he's about to give him another ribbing for turning down the girl, but he's spared from it. He orders - a coffee, although for once he doesn't need it after the sleep he's had. He wonders if he should eat something, but at the sight of the food laid out behind the glass he feels his stomach turn, and that's the answer he needs.

He sits, tries not to watch the door the whole time, but with every person that comes in he's got his head up, poised to see that face, those eyes, the large coat with the fur lining, and that voice; the accent, and the defiance, and the irritation which is present more than it's not, and something else too: the way that sometimes it'll soften, and for a second Ste experiences that sensation. Being let in.

But he doesn't come. Soon ten minutes turns into half an hour, and he's beginning to feel like he's outstaying his welcome. The cafe's not packed, not even close, but he can see the guy behind the counter throwing looks his way, and soon an attempt at subtlety turns to an obvious wish to get him out. Ste's approached, asked if he'd like anything else, and he knows the end of that sentence naturally ends with, _because if you don't then leave._ This isn't the kind of anonymous place that he can sit in all day if he'd like, like one of those coffee shops in town, where all you need is a laptop and a single cappuccino and you'll be parked there all day.

He orders another coffee. That'll appease the guy for another half hour at least, and Ste likes it; likes the way it warms him and lets him imagine that he's here just to drink, not because he's hoping that Brendan will come along like he's come along so many other times, turning up when Ste least expects it. He feels like the universe is playing a cruel trick on him. The one time he wants Brendan to be here, he isn't.

::::::

He admits defeat. He stays for longer than he should because there's that possibility - that annoying, nagging possibility - that the minute he leaves will be the minute Brendan turns up. But he could be here all day if he continues to think like that; he imagines himself shaking as he's finally kicked out, the effects of the caffeine keeping him up all night. It's then that he realises he needs to get out, because he's seriously contemplating doing it.

Amy and the kids should be back by now. He could go home, have lunch with them. But alongside that thought is another one, pushing the other out: Going to the McQueen's. He'd thought it crazy before, but he's being safe, isn't he? He's doing it for the right reasons, to make sure that Carmel's okay. To see if Brendan's with her. To watch how they are with each other, if anything's changed. He can't silence the voice in his head that tells him that something still isn't right. He can't even say for sure if it's Brendan that he's worried about - the violence in him, the way he can be increasingly volatile when he wants to be - but Ste knows that it's _something_.

He's more nervous than he was the first time, when he had gone to get Brendan's address. Doing it once had been something he'd been able to pass off to himself as harmless. He was hardly an expert at these kind of things within the HVF. He wasn't one of the rule breakers he'd heard about who'd been found out, forced to leave the job. He'd done everything they'd asked, down to the most mundane, the most beyond what he thought this work would be. And there had been other things, things which were impressive. He'd killed a rabid single handedly. The way he thought about it, he'd earned this. He'd earned the right to do something that wasn't quite by the book. As scared as he'd been at getting caught the first time, there had been a kind of satisfaction to doing exactly what he wanted to do.

But this? Twice. A conscious decision, not something he could explain away as easily.

He's relieved to see the same receptionist at the treatment centre. It would all fall apart if she wasn't; he's not wearing his uniform, hasn't got his identification card with him. He's worried for a moment that she's already forgotten his face, but after a brief pause there's a moment of recognition.

"Working at the weekend, are you?"

"Just picking up some things. I forgot them yesterday." He's bending over backwards to sound apologetic, and like he's _oh so stupid, silly him_ at being careless and having to come back. He wonders if complimenting her on her choice of earrings would work in his favour, but he decides that with this particular woman he'd most likely be branded an ass kisser and shown the door.

"Warren not with you?" She says, and she knows he's not, can see he's not. Ste's momentarily surprised that she knows who Warren is, but then why should he be? Warren's the one they all answer to. Ste's just a number, a body who makes up the rest of the group.

"No." He internally prays that she'll never mention this to him; there's hope in the fact that she doesn't seem to have said anything about the last time. "On my own today. I won't be long, I swear. Just need to grab something and then I'll be off."

She sighs, debates. Ste knows the protocol - the receptionists shouldn't be letting anyone in without ID, even if they know they worked in the HVF before. There's no guarantee that since then the person hasn't quit or been fired, and their return to the treatment centre would be strictly prohibited.

 _Please. Please make an exception, just this once._

"Go on then." She doesn't look happy about it, but she's waving him through.

After giving her his thanks - so overblown that she'd be forgiven for thinking that she'd just saved his life - he's rushing down the hallway, knowing he hasn't got long, knowing this has to be quick. The different room numbers seem like a blur as he rushes past, and he moves faster still when he sees the doors opening; he puts his head down, picks up the pace. He knows Warren's pally with some of the doctors, and he can't risk them recognising him and telling tales.

He's beginning to think he's already gone passed the room when he reaches it. He knocks tentatively, has already decided that he'll make a run for it if someone he knows is in there. But there's no answer and he slips inside, is faced by the familiar layout and the files on the shelves.

He's so desperate to be out of here as soon as possible that he almost knocks the files over. He waits, expects the sound of footsteps, anticipates being faced by an array of people asking him what the hell he's doing there, but the sound must be magnified only to him. No one comes, and he resumes what he was doing, more carefully this time.

It's Jacqui's name he's looking for, but still he stops when he sees Brendan's file. All he'd taken from it was his address and phone number the last time, and he recalls the way he'd regretted not finding out more; not seeing if there was anything in those pages which could give him a better insight into who Brendan was. There's nothing to tell him that there is, but there's nothing to tell him that there isn't either. Just one look is what he wants. Just one chance to find out something about his past, about his death, about _anything_. It seems so easy: all he has to do is turn the pages and there it could all be, everything he's wanted to know.

He's about to do it. It's more important than finding out where Carmel lives, more important than anything else he'd planned today. It's more important than Brendan walking into that coffee shop and drawing out a chair and sitting next to him.

He gets as far as _date of birth_ before he stops. It's not that he doesn't want to - it's the very opposite of that. But he knows what it is, knows that it's an invasion. He imagines if the situation was reversed, if Brendan had access to a file all about his life. Where he grew up, and how he grew up, with Pauline and Terry. The truancies from school before he'd dropped out entirely. Meeting Amy, and what had happened between them, and what he'd done to her. Every significant moment there on paper, all for Brendan to read and judge and hate him for.

He'd despise that. More than that - he'd _ache_. He'd ache that his chance to prove him wrong had been taken from him. That all Brendan would ever see from then on was what had been in that file, the truth but the distorted truth, for it would surely leave out all the good things, the things that Ste was proud of. He knew that everything that had made Brendan happy - if there was anything at all - wouldn't be in the file. Any mention of his kids would be glossed over; Ste could imagine a quick mention of how Brendan had abandoned Padraig and Declan in the move from Ireland to England. Maybe a reference to Cheryl and the burden of having a rotter as a brother, but nothing about how much she loved him. Nothing about how protective she was, or how she'd been the only one who could make him care about anything.

He wants to read it. He wants to read it so badly that, if left in the room for long enough, he knows he would. But he wants to stop himself, _needs_ to stop himself. He knows he could never look at Brendan again, could never talk with him or let him drive him home if he did this. He'd feel like a hypocrite - worse - if he did, if he preached about turning up for work on time and not getting into fights, and the importance of a stupid twelve minute detention if he stripped Brendan of all his privacy, all his dignity.

Warren might know, and Danny might know, and everyone else in the HVF might know - but Ste can't.

He puts Brendan's file back on the shelf, wondering how much time he's lost. He's relieved when he manages to find Jacqui's file quickly after that, and he makes a note of her address. He's not ignoring the fact that this isn't exactly ethical; turning up at a rotter's house, the one place that should be a haven for them. But he's not going there for Jacqui, and with any luck she'll be out in town, scoring the shops for more leopard print high heels, or whatever it is that she does.

He pockets the note with the address on, making sure that the room looks the same as it did when he arrived. He can still remember exactly which file on the shelves is Brendan's, and again there's that hesitance, that fractional step forward, that idea of what it would be like if he could read it.

He closes the door behind him, waves a goodbye to the receptionist and heads in the direction of Carmel's house.

::::::

He's already knocked on the door when he realises that he still hasn't come up with a proper excuse for being here.

He can hear shouting - a yell of _answer that, won't you,_ and then there's someone at the door. Not the someone he'd been hoping for.

He'd known that the little touches Jacqui had added at work - the hoop earrings, the heels - hadn't even come close to showing what she really wore. Her hair's as it is when he usually sees her, slicked back in a ponytail, and her make up is bright, vibrant - lipstick, overdrawn, and purple eyeshadow if he's not mistaken. He regrets his own choice of clothes; somehow a tracksuit doesn't scream authority figure.

He doesn't blame her for the look she gives him - a slow up and down flicker of the eyes with the beginning of a snarl - nor does he take offense at the way she tries to shut the door in his face. He'd do the same if she turned up on his doorstep. And in a way he feels relieved. She doesn't seem to be treating him any differently to how she usually does, which he hopes means that she's not going to bring up what happened at the library. He's not seen her or Rhys or any of the rest of the group since it happened, and apart from a quick text from Tony asking him if he was alright, there's been nothing. It's exactly what he'd hoped for; indifference to it like it had never happened at all. The last thing he wants is for Jacqui to pity him like he's something pathetic, or to start rooting around in his personal life and get to the bottom of why he'd been so reluctant to read.

"Wait." He wedges his foot between the door. He can already tell that she's a girl who fights dirty, probably always has been, and he's not going to be able to take her. But he'd relied on the shock of the action stilling her, and that's exactly what it's done: she stops trying to get rid of him, and he sees for the first time that she's curious.

"What are you doing here? If you're trying to get me to work on a Saturday then forget it. I need the money but I don't need it _that_ badly."

 _I need the money._ He won't tell Amy about this. He won't tell her anything about Jacqui. She'd only start on again about hiring her as a babysitter, and he can't have that. It's selfish, he knows, but he barely trusts anyone to look after his kids, and those are the people who are alive.

"It's nothing to do with that."

She's still looking at him like he's a nuisance, a salesman that she wants to do away with, but she takes her hands off the door.

"Speak. Now."

For all of Tony's words about how different a family can be, Ste still can't quite believe that Jacqui and Carmel are related. Carmel wouldn't attack him like this.

But Jacqui wouldn't fall for Brendan Brady.

"I'm here to see your sister."

"You'll have to narrow it down."

"What?"

"Are you here to see our Mercedes?"

Ste looks blankly over his shoulder, back at the small front garden that's in front of the McQueen's property. He doesn't see a Mercedes. He doesn't see any cars.

"She's out."

Ste's glad he hadn't said anything.

"I'm not here to -"

"Tina then?"

"No."

"Michaela?"

Good grief.

"I'm here to see Carmel."

He waits for Jacqui to ask the dreaded question, and surely enough she does.

"Why?"

"Community things." It's all he can come up with, so vague that it could mean anything, to cover for the fact that it means nothing. Jacqui looks unconvinced - smart as well as strong - and he knows she's about to laugh at him. "Is she here then?"

"I didn't know you two were friends."

"We're not, are we." Realising he'd probably sounded more harsh than he'd intended, he tries to backtrack. "We've talked though, haven't we. About... you know." More vagueness.

"I'll have to have a word with her. We don't usually give our address out to anyone who talks about... you know."

He feels like he's given the game away, that she's seen right through him. But she's not asking him directly, hasn't said anything about how he knew where to come, and he's not volunteering the information. They're at a standstill, neither of them giving in.

Ste breaks the silence.

"Is she here then?"

"Yeah, she's here." She turns away from him, shouts up the stairs. "Carmel, it's for you."

No reply, and then an answering shout, excited, hopeful: "Is it Brendan?"

Ste sees Jacqui roll her eyes.

"No, it's not Brendan. It's the other one."

Ste wonders if that's all he is. _The other one._

"Does he come here a lot then?" Ste asks, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. Jacqui doesn't seem to notice; she's looking towards the television set that's on in the background, already shifting the focus of her attention. She's clearly decided that Ste's not a threat.

"Who?"

"Brendan."

"No," she says idly, distracted, and Ste wants to shake her for not seeing how this isn't just anything that they're talking about.

"No?" He thinks there must be some kind of mistake. What Brendan had said yesterday had made it seem like there was something between them; Ste had expected to come here and find them on the sofa together, _a couple._ "Never?

She looks at him then, frowns. "That's what I said. Why?"

He's saved from answering by Carmel's footsteps on the stairs. They both look up. She's doing a good job at hiding her disappointment at it being _the other one_ instead, and her face splits into a grin. Ste should find it welcoming, but he finds it irritating. Doesn't she ever have an off day?

"What a lovely surprise!"

He hears Jacqui mutter _Is it?_ He pretends he doesn't hear.

"Sorry for coming over like this." A part of him does feel sorry, increasingly so; not just for having to make conversation with them both, but for stepping into their world. They may not have a lot of money, but they've made the place theirs. It's not empty, soulless, a shell. It's home, and it ought to be the one thing that the HVF have nothing to do with.

"Don't be silly." Carmel dismisses his concerns, insists he stays. But he can see that she's wondering why he's here. He repeats his line about _community things_ , is amazed when Carmel swallows it like she understands completely, like it's something she hears every day.

Carmel makes some tea while Ste settles on the sofa. Jacqui hovers, and when she goes to help Carmel in the kitchen Ste can hear them muttering. Whatever argument they're having Carmel must win, because she's back a few minutes later with cups of tea. Not any biscuits, he notes, remembering what Brendan had said about the perfect dunking technique.

It's strange; he thought he'd forgotten all about that story.

"Ta." Ste shifts, struggling to get comfortable. He never thought he'd be making a habit of this, inviting himself into rotters' homes and convincing himself that it was something he could get away with, that Warren would never find out. He knows this will only get him so far. It can't keep happening; his luck's going to run out.

Turns out Jacqui's going to stay. Turns out she wants to know what these all important community things consist of.

"Right, well..." He's stumbling, and he hopes they'll both dismiss it as every day behaviour. He's always been useless at speeches. Joining up the words, making sense of them, making everyone else see the sense of them. Maybe they won't see the change in him, won't know why he's so flustered.

Nothing's happening. Nothing's coming to him; an excuse will form in his mind only for him to poke holes in it, dismissing it entirely. Everything sounds false, something to trip him up and reveal him as the fraud he is.

"I just thought... seeing as how the work you're doing is so good..."

She can't be buying this. He's sure she can't be. He's the same person who's always thought that community police officers are a waste of space. Who's defied them in the past and would happily defy them again if it's something he could get away with.

But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know anything about the things he's done.

"I was thinking maybe we could tag along, you know. Me and Tony, and the..." _Rotters_. He stops himself for Jacqui's sake, changes the wording. "Partially deceased. When you're out on community work, or just..."

 _Or just nothing, because I don't know what I'm talking about, where this is going._

It's the last thing he wants. He'd have to see Carmel and Brendan together every day, and he can already picture it: catching them kissing when they should be working, and hearing that laugh of Brendan's when he's in their company, that edge to it that feels forced to Ste, a study of what he thinks a laugh should be like.

"Isn't that sweet, Jacqui?" Carmel turns to her sister, seeking her approval. Sweet doesn't looks like the word Jacqui would use. "But Ste..."

He feels a spark of hope in him. She's going to say no.

She speaks softly, slowly, like she's having to break bad news to a small child.

"I'd love to." She stresses the word _love_ , does it to the extent that Ste's expecting her to write it down on a piece of paper, bold, and underline it. "But I'm just too busy. I wouldn't be allowed to. If there was any way -"

 _Please don't let there be any way._

"Maybe in the future."

 _Please not in the future._

"I understand." It's starting to scare him how easily he can lie; he can hear the note of disappointment in his voice, no suggestion of deceit there. "It was just an idea, that's all."

"Oh Ste." She's looking at him sympathetically, as though he's been dreaming for years about the possibility of tagging along with a community police officer.

"I won't keep you anyway." Now that he knows Brendan isn't here - that, according to Jacqui, he's never been here - he has no desire to stay.

But perhaps he's managed to convince Carmel of his heartache a little too well, because she seems to think she has to make it up to him.

"Don't be silly. Stay, finish your tea."

He wonders if he can down it in one without looking rude.

"Mum's left us some lasagna in the fridge if you're interested."

A quick visit has turned into tea, and tea's turned into lasagna.

"No, you're alright." Truthfully he is hungry, but she doesn't need to know that. Only it turns out Carmel doesn't care either way what he says, because she's _insisting_. Under ordinary circumstances Ste would have no problem with making a hasty exit, but he doesn't fancy his chances against Jacqui. Ste's heard her talking about her life at home - the chaos, the frustrations, but even when she's complaining there's something else there, a fondness, and Ste knows she's not about to let anyone make a fool of her sister.

Two plates are dished out, giant servings of lasagna swamping them, and they move over to the table in the kitchen. Jacqui makes herself scarce; she may want to intimidate him, but that doesn't mean she's prepared to spend her afternoon off with the enemy. But Ste knows that she's just upstairs, and ready to be down like a shot if he puts a foot wrong.

If Carmel senses his discomfort then she doesn't draw attention to it. She's polite, talkative - a little too talkative - and Ste begins to feel bad about the thoughts he'd had, how he'd wondered why Brendan was interested in her beyond the superficial. But even now he thinks it, can't stop himself, and the _why_ is still a mystery. He still can't put them together in his mind, can't imagine that Brendan would have any patience with a girl like her. A thousand other men, yes. But not Brendan.

What had seemed like an uncomfortable way to pass the day is starting to look like an opportunity. He notices it after a while; the way Carmel brings topics back round to Brendan, the openness with which she talks about him. She's looking for a reason to mention him, and when Ste gives her that reason she's off on a tangent, animated.

"He's so _lovely_ , isn't he?"

Ste says nothing.

"Since my Calvin, I haven't really... Well, I haven't really met anyone, you know? Not like Brendan."

No, Ste supposes. It must be rare to come across anyone like Brendan.

"And he's so..." She hesitates, suddenly shy.

 _What? So what? Violent? Terrifying?_ He wonders if this is it, if this is the moment when he'll finally find out what's been wrong all this time. Carmel's head over heels act could just be that - an act. She doesn't look scared, but maybe she's been hiding it, waiting for an opportunity to tell someone the truth.

"So handsome," she finishes, bashful.

He doesn't know what to say to that.

"Look at me, going on."

 _Yes,_ he thinks. _Yes, look at you. Please stop._

"He's not... There are things you don't know about him."

Carmel doesn't take him seriously; she pulls a face like he's having her on.

"Like what?"

He doesn't know, not entirely. That's the problem. But he knows there's something. He's just not sure if Carmel would believe him. Why would she? No one else seems to.

"Don't you worry, Ste." She pats him on the head, and he resists the urge to slap her hand away. He'd thought that Cheryl was overly familiar when he'd first met her, but this is worse. He doesn't know where it's come from, but as blameless as she is he knows that he most definitely does _not_ want her touching him. "I'll be getting to know Brendan much better soon anyway."

It's something about the way she says it. A coyness, but a pride too, and deliberate in its suggestion. She wants Ste to go there, wants him to ask.

He doesn't, not immediately. He draws it out, dreading the answer.

Then: "What do you mean?" He swallows thickly, can taste the bitter tannin of the tea. He should have asked for more milk; he nearly does now, just to change the subject. But he knows he'll be thinking about what she wanted to say for the rest of the night if he does that.

He feels like he's holding his breath until she says it.

"He's taking me on holiday."

He's intensely relieved that Jacqui's upstairs and can't look at him. He knows the blood's drained from his face.

"Holiday." His voice is flat.

"Barcelona." She says it like it's something shrouded in magic and beauty. In awe, she is. "Have you ever been there?"

"No." He wonders if she's having a laugh in asking him, but she seems too sincere for that. She's not to know that he doesn't do things like that. Not now, not ever.

"I can't wait. It won't be _hot_ hot this time of year, but it'll be better than here, won't it? Just me and Brendan."

That's the cut off point, when he switches off. He's aware of her prattling on but he's not hearing what she's saying now. He's only _seeing_ it: Carmel and Brendan, together, away from the rest of the McQueens. Away from the people who can keep an eye on her, on both of them.

That's if they even make it onto the plane. If Warren and Danny let it happen at all.

But if they do go, then it will be just the two of them. It won't matter about the locals or the other tourists, or the staff at the hotel, or wherever it is they'll be staying. At the end of the night they'll close the door on all of them. No interruptions. No distractions. Just them, together.

It turns out that Ste needn't have worried about them already having slept together. It would have happened eventually anyway, on this holiday.

He doesn't realise he's said _No_ until there's silence, and Carmel's staring at him like the wind's been taken out of her sails. He hadn't meant to voice that out loud.

He must have sounded forceful, defiant, because she's not rolling her eyes or pulling a face this time.

"What do you mean?" She's still sounding like she's trying to laugh it off, but it's definitely there, that hesitation. He's got her full attention.

"Think about it," he says, and _he's_ thinking about it, can't think of anything else now. Barcelona. Carmel in a bikini, lounging by the pool. Brendan with her arms all over her. And weeks it could be, _weeks_ until they're home again. Anything could happen in that time. "You barely know him."

"Yes I do."

Is that a note of annoyance he can hear? She doesn't like this, doesn't understand why he's not sharing her joy. She doesn't like all these questions.

"A couple of lunch dates doesn't -"

"We've seen each others _loads_ , Ste."

He doesn't know if he can trust her. He hopes that she's professing too much, defensive because she's realising that he's right, that this whole thing with Brendan barely has a foundation, that it's built on nothing but false flirtation, nothing serious.

But he's well aware that this wouldn't be the first time that he's hearing what he wants to hear.

"I don't get why you're..." She shakes her head, seems to steady herself and tries to revert back to her usual persona: believing the good in people, choosing to believe that this is all a misunderstanding. "You're a good friend, Ste."

 _Am I?_ He can't take the praise. He doesn't deserve it. He isn't trying to be a friend, and he isn't trying to be good.

"Looking out for me. I really appreciate it."

He thinks that surely even Carmel can't be serious about this; for all her naivety she can't really think that they've formed anything like a friendship in the short amount of time they've known each other.

"But it's going to be fine. We're going to be fine, me and Brendan."

So they're a _we_ now. An _us_. A package.

"You can go on holiday anytime, can't you? Maybe just wait a couple of months, or a year."

"A year?" She sounds like it's unthinkable; like it's unthinkable to wait that long for Brendan.

"You might change your mind by then."

"About what?"

 _About Brendan._

Maybe Carmel knows what he's thinking, because she's standing now, and looking like she wants him to do the same. He guesses she'd happily push him towards the front door as well.

"I won't change my mind." There's a steeliness to her that he hasn't seen before.

Ste hears footsteps on the stairs. He must have been louder than he thought; they've attracted attention, and the very person he didn't want to see is coming towards him. She cottons on quick, Jacqui: one glance at her sister and she must know that the conversation's taken a turn for the worse.

"Everything alright?" She's not merely curious; she's telling him that if everything's not alright then it's his fault, and he's going to be the one to pay.

Carmel nods, but she's less than convincing.

"Did you know about this?" Ste asks desperately, clinging onto the possibility that Carmel's kept the holiday a secret from her family. He knows Jacqui doesn't think much of Brendan - none of the group do - and if he can get her on side then he might stand a shot at stopping this before it goes any further.

"About what?"

"The holiday." It feels strange to say it; something unwanted, something which he recoils against.

His hope collapses in on itself when Jacqui says "Barcelona, yeah," like it's the most casual thing in the world.

"And you're letting it happen?"

She laughs at him. "Letting it? Carmel's a big girl, Ste. I think she's allowed to go on holiday, don't you?"

"With him though?"

"What's your problem?" Then her confusion clears, and comprehension sinks in. The wrong kind of comprehension. "I get it. It's because he's a rotter, isn't it?"

Ste could scream in frustration. Why isn't anyone getting it?

"No, that's not -"

But he doesn't get a chance to defend himself.

"You've got some nerve, you know." She's moving away from the foot of the stairs, and with every step closer Ste tries to convince himself that he's not scared of her, but when she's within touching distance he's not so sure; she looks angry enough to do anything to him. "Showing up at my house - a _rotter's_ house, if you forgot - and then making my sister upset."

Ste glances at Carmel, about to argue, but he can't. Jacqui's right. He _has_ upset her.

"Then not wanting her to go away with a rotter. What do you think's going to happen - that he'll infect her? That he'll turn rabid, kill her?"

Carmel's trying to get her to stop, downplaying the whole thing - _I'm sure that's not what Ste was trying to say_ \- but Jacqui's twisting the knife in.

"Think he'll eat her brains, do you?"

Ste remembers how Brendan had taunted him with that once, like he was just a stupid human who lived his life based around cliches and stereotypes, who could never understand what it was that rabids really did, what they were really like.

Maybe Brendan wasn't completely wrong. Maybe he is just a stupid human.

"Just get out."

He stands there, motionless, too shocked to do anything. Carmel's still protesting - _Jacqui, stop, he didn't mean it_ \- but Ste wonders if that's just for show. For all he knows she might think he deserves it.

He babbles that he's sorry, that he made a mistake. But he knows he didn't. He knows he meant it all.

This is the second time in a matter of months that he's being thrown out of a woman's house. Far more if he counts men, too - all the times he's been shoved out of Warren's front door when their meetings are over. He should be immune to it by now, but he still finds himself standing outside the door as if frozen in place, wondering how he ended up here when moments ago he was inside, eating lasagna and being treated like a special guest.

He's wary of Jacqui on the other side of the glass. He wouldn't put it past her to come out and chase him off the premises if she catches him lurking.

He walks unsteadily, and what starts out as confusion about where he's going to go morphs into something else. By the time he's turned out of the McQueen's road he knows where he's headed. And he knows what's going to happen when he gets there.

::::::

He could go there all guns blazing - literally, if he wanted to - pounding on the door and demanding to be let it. He could swear. He could make it known that he's done with talking, done with twelve minute detentions and other similarly juvenile punishments.

But he won't give Brendan the pleasure of knowing how much he's got to him, that he's under his skin.

Besides, there's a risk that Cheryl's at home, that she'll answer. His initial dismissal that he no longer cares what she thinks or what happens to her evaporates as he nears their flat. He cares. He doesn't want to, but he does. She's innocent in all of this, as far as he's aware, and she doesn't deserve to witness a scene.

He forces himself to knock normally, quietly. He doesn't need any neighbours overhearing this either. He's already putting a lot on the line to be here, and he's not going to risk the possibility of someone recognising him and the information making its way back to Warren.

He's about to give up after what feels like an infinite amount of time waiting, but just as he's turned his back he hears the sound of the door opening, and he knows it's Brendan. He'd be welcomed if it was Cheryl, but with Brendan there's nothing, not until Ste turns back around.

"Steven." He sounds curious, and he would be, wouldn't he - Ste hasn't been here since the first time, and he never thought he'd be back again. Brendan hadn't wanted him in his home to begin with, and he must want it even less the second time after he'd already warned him against it.

"Hi." He's off to a bad start; he doesn't sound remotely intimidating like he'd intended. He feels like he's shaking, and he feels like Brendan can see it. "Can I come in?" Again, the polite request wasn't part of the plan. But barging his way in no longer seems like a possibility; he'd momentarily forgotten how big Brendan is. His shoulders seem to be as wide as the door.

He knows Brendan has no reason to let him in. It makes it more of a shock when he steps back, allowing Ste to enter.

"Cheryl's out."

Of course. Of course Brendan would never allow him to be here if she wasn't. He must have already calculated how long she'll be away for too, to make sure that their paths don't cross.

He squeezes past Brendan. The rotter deliberately isn't leaving him much room, and Ste wonders how he does it so effortlessly, these tactics that make him feel threatened. Ste had time to plan what he was going to do once he was here, but Brendan had no warning of it, and yet still he knows how to make Ste feel uncomfortable while he's perfectly at ease.

The flat's spacious enough, but it doesn't stop him from feeling stifled when the door's closed. Despite only being here once, everything feels like a reminder: the sofa where they'd sat when Cheryl had made them tea. The wall which Brendan had pushed him against. The spare room that he'd gone into, discovering it empty, and where he'd changed into Brendan's vest.

At one point he'd thought that he'd never make it out alive. He wonders if he'll feel like that again today.

"So," Brendan says expectantly. "What do I owe this honour?"

Ste keeps close to the door, needs to know that he can escape quickly if he needs to. But he knows that he's kidding himself. If Brendan wanted to stop him from leaving then he could.

"I'm here to..." He could bottle this. Now that he's here it feels like a bad idea. He'd rather be back at the McQueen's with Jacqui shouting at him.

But then he thinks about Barcelona, and it's all the courage he needs.

"I know about the holiday."

Brendan doesn't react, doesn't look scared. Ste hadn't expected him to.

"Carmel told me. Going soon, she said. When is it?"

"A couple of weeks." No hesitation, no guilt. No hiding.

"Right." Ste lets it sink in. A couple of weeks. A couple of weeks for him to try to stop this. "Making her pay for all this, are you?"

"What do you take me for? A lady never pays."

Ste frowns. Brendan can't be serious. He knows a community police officer's salary can't be much, but it's got to be more than a rotter could make picking up litter for the HVF. Unless the money is from before, when Brendan was still alive, but why spend it all on someone he's only known for five minutes?

"How are you affording it?"

"Bit of a personal question, don't you think?"

"How?"

Brendan shakes his head, dismissive.

 _Why?_ That's what's more important than how. Why Carmel?

"Look, I'm not fucking around anymore." He means to appear serious, but Brendan doesn't seem convinced: he gives him a pretend _I'm listening, I'm afraid_ expression. "I mean it, Brendan. All this, it's got to stop."

"All what?"

"You and Carmel."

There's a pause, and then: "You're asking me not to see her?"

"Yes." Ste says, and then he realises how ridiculous it sounds. He has no right to ask that, but still he presses ahead, because he might not have the right but he has the need. He has the need to stop it. "I don't believe you. When you're with her, I don't... I don't believe you."

"What do you mean, you don't believe me?"

"It's not _real_. Everyone else might buy it - Jacqui, and Tony, and maybe even your Cheryl if you've told her - but not me. You two, you don't go together. I see you when you're with her, and it's... it's fake, alright? You're fake when you're around her. You're bored, I can tell. And she's sweet, and... you're not. She wouldn't like you if she knew the real you, which means you're not telling her something. You're holding back."

"You ever think that maybe, just maybe, someone could like me?"

"Yes," Ste says, and he doesn't know why he says it, because the answer should be _no_. "But not her."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

"You're not offended."

"I'm not?" Brendan says.

"No. You're annoyed. Annoyed because you know I'm close to finding out what this is, this... _thing_ with you two. It's been easy so far, hasn't it? You've got everyone fooled. Everyone's so happy about this bloody holiday, and all the while you're laughing at them all for being so stupid."

"Wow, Steven. That's... quite a speech."

"Don't give me that. And don't try to convince me that I'm going mad either, right, because it's not going to work. Just tell me." He allows himself to step away from the door, to lose the comfort that comes from it. "Tell me, and we can put a stop to it before anything happens. Before... before anyone gets hurt, or..."

"The only person that's going to get hurt is you." Brendan looks angry enough to hit him, and Ste's bracing himself for it, shrinking away. But his words do the opposite.

"You can hurt me all you like. You can't shut me up though."

"Want to take a bet?"

"Go on then. Do your worst. But I'm still going to find out. You're not getting on that plane, either of you."

Brendan's staring at his eyes, his lips. Ste wonders if he's looking at all the parts of his face that he'll bruise.

"Walk away, Steven."

He's going. He's not about to be kicked out of this place too, and having the freedom to leave of his own accord makes him feel less like he's lost. Leaving now gives him more time, which he desperately needs. Time to discover what Brendan's doing. Time to find out, once and for all, what he's using Carmel for.

A couple of weeks. The countdown starts now.


	24. Chapter 24

He had - naively, perhaps - thought that his sleeping was under control again. What he hadn't taken into account was that it was the alcohol putting him spark out; the booze from the night he'd spent drinking with Brendan at The Loft which had calmed him, settling his mind enough for him to sleep without the nightmares.

It's sometime in the early hours. He doesn't look at his bedside clock, knows that it will make him feel worse when he sees exactly how long he's been lying here, eyes screwed shut as his shifts from side to side.

It's tempting to grab the wine that's in one of the cupboards. It's rare that they drink the stuff, him and Amy; they keep it for special occasions, to toast good news, only it turns out that it's been sitting there for a while, seeing as how they never seem to have any good news to celebrate. Even the fact that he'll be free soon from the Human Volenteer Force hasn't made either of them crack the bottle out. They both know that it's not a smooth path that he has to go down, not one which requires a clinking of glasses and easy smiles.

He could do it, could tiptoe down the hallway and into the kitchen. Take a glass, finish the bottle if that's what it takes to get him to be able to switch off. But he knows all too well what happens in that scenario. He's seen it, lived it. He knows that the _one off_ doesn't always end up being that. He's seen where that road ends.

He knows he's worrying about something, must be, but he doesn't know what it is. Or is it everything, all of it at once? The kids - whether they're happy with their current set up, of Ste often coming home late and not having the chance to say goodnight. Amy - if she can see right through him, knows that he's keeping something from her, and what her reaction will be when she finds out; the arguments, the fights, the boxes of his clothes and belongings that she'll pack before she makes him leave. Warren and Danny - what they could do to him, and if it could ever be as simple as them letting him walk away and have a new life when all this is over. Brendan - his involvement with Veronica and how neither of them will tell him what's going on. The hold he's got over Carmel, how she's blindly agreed to go on holiday with him despite hardly knowing him. The last conversation he'd had with Brendan, and how everything had felt ruined in that moment, as though all they'd been through before then had been for nothing.

That's what sticks the most, what stays in his mind and goes round and round, tormenting. _Brendan_. Ste had hated him last night, hated how it felt like there were still so many secrets between them, but what he hated more was the feeling that he had ruined things between them. Not Brendan, but _him_. He knows he should be happy. He's meant to feel like this, meant to be angry and frustrated with the rotter, but instead he's desperately thinking of how he can make things the way they were again.

He's scared about what Brendan's going to be like when he next sees him. If he'll even acknowledge him, or if that will be it. Silence. Strangers.

Ste grips the sheets, claws at them. Better that than what he really wants to do, which is to punch a wall, kick a door, throw something. He's glad that Amy's sleeping. If it were daylight, and she was near him -

He wouldn't do anything. He's almost completely sure. He trusts himself. He thinks. But it's that - that iota of doubt, that possibility - that kills him.

::::::

He's bleary eyed. He's had one, two hours sleep at the most, and he's clumsy this morning: he gets the milk out and then wonders why it's not in the fridge, spending a good few minutes searching for it before finding it on the table top. He raises his voice at Lucas, making his son run back to his room. He finds him in there, sniffing and clutching at one of his toys. He coaxes him back to the kitchen with promises of juice and cereal and extra sugar sprinkled on top (something he won't tell Amy about), and as they're all eating together, the four of them, he finds himself being jealous of them. Jealous of how normal they seem, how they sleep soundlessly, how they don't have all of this going on in their heads. With the jealousy immediately comes the guilt; he can't believe he can think that about his own children, and after he kisses them goodbye before they leave for nursery and school, he holds them tight and hopes they can feel how sorry he is.

He ends up running late for work. It's his own fault - he allows himself to get distracted by this and that, by things which don't even matter, prolonging the moment when he'll have to leave. A part of him wants to be there, wants to get it all over with and find out if Brendan will treat him any differently, but there's also dread weighing him down. He goes over what he'd said about Carmel and the holiday when he's walking passed the estate and into the village, and he tries to see it through new eyes, tries to work out if he'd been too harsh.

He can hear what everyone else would say. They'd accuse him of being paranoid, of overreacting. It's just a holiday, and if Warren allows Brendan to go at all - highly possible, as there's no law in place that could stop him - then he'd surely only be gone for a week or two. And Ste still doesn't know exactly what he thinks is going to happen when Brendan and Carmel are in Barcelona. He had no real evidence, no real answers.

But it's in his gut. He can't get it out of his head, however much he tries. So no. No, he hadn't been too harsh. He'd been justified, _is_ justified in what he'd said, and in what he's going to do.

Brendan's already there when he reaches the centre of the village, and she's there too. They're very much together, side by side, and he can see that Carmel's using any excuse to be close to him. He counts every touch as he's approaching, and by the time he's joined the group it's tallied at five. Five in only the few minutes, possibly seconds, that it's taken to walk over. On holiday it'll be more, much more. More than he'd be able to count.

"Hiya," he says, and he looks round the group - the first time he's seen many of them since what happened at the library - but he finds he doesn't feel nervous about what they might be thinking of him, or if they've spent the weekend spreading stories about what he did and what he couldn't do. He's too concerned with Brendan and Carmel to care, and he doesn't know whether he ought to feel grateful; he's not sure that this new worry is any better.

He sees Brendan look at him, but he doesn't know if it's friendly enough to be counted as an acknowledgement. Carmel's predictably more welcoming, giving him a wave that Ste doesn't imitate. He tries not to catch Jacqui's eye, but he's aware of her watching him, and he wonders if there's a chance that she's already gone straight to Tony or Warren about him turning up at her house. He reasons with himself that surely he would already have heard from Warren if she had - a voicemail, or worse, a knock on the door - but then he can't always be certain that he knows exactly how his mind operates. Warren's dealings with Danny seem to have made him less easy to pin down: before he'd been the brute who called Ste _Ratboy_ and ordered him around, but now he's something altogether more sinister. These visits of his, these meetings, have made Ste reconsider things. Maybe Warren's more of a threat than he'd originally thought. Maybe Jacqui has already told him, and he's just biding his time until he gets revenge.

 _Revenge_. He could laugh at himself, could laugh at what his life's become. He would if he didn't feel so grave about it all at the same time. He knows there's something funny about it all on the outside - the dramatic paranoia, the meetings in the basement, and a man like Danny asking him to go clubbing like he's on some kind of a mission. But Ste's the one who's got to live it, who's got to do all that, and it's not so comical on the inside. The fear never leaves him, and during these meetings and missions he doesn't always know if he's going to make it out alive.

"Are you alright, Ste?" Tony says, shaking him out of where he's gone to in his head.

He must have gone pale, or have a look on his face that he's been unable to control.

"Yeah, fine." He doesn't know how many times it'll take of Tony asking him that question before he realises that he's not alright. That he hasn't been alright for a long time now. He moves swiftly on, not wanting the questioning to continue. "Carmel, we've got to get off, so..."

The comment - clearly a demand for her to leave, rather than a suggestion - earns him another glance from Jacqui. He's on thin ice.

"Sure, sorry Ste."

It occurs to him that Carmel might be feeling guilty for what happened yesterday. He can imagine the carnage that had happened when he'd left, Jacqui no doubt jumping the gun and wanting to go all out, report him, not let him get away with it. He pictures Carmel trying to calm her sister down, make her leave it all alone.

He feels a twinge of guilt that she might feel like that, but that's all it is: a twinge.

He knows what's coming, and he tries not to look. But it's like a car crash - he knows it's awful, knows that he'll feel worse for looking, but he can't not. He has to see, out of some bizarre and twisted sense of curiosity.

There's no kiss on the cheek this time, no remainder of lipstick that Carmel leaves behind on Brendan's skin. Ste watches as she presses her lips onto his, and he wonders why there's no audible gasp from the rest of the rotters or from Tony, because he's gasping, somewhere inside himself. The kiss can't last for more than a second, and later on when he's clear headed enough to look back on it with clarity, he'll remember how it was chaste, nothing passionate. They weren't _snogging_.

But at the time, when he's first witnessed it, they may as well be.

He realises he's one of the only people watching. The others are distracted, talking to each other; even Jacqui is too preoccupied with something Rhys is saying to her. He doesn't understand how no one else can see how alarming this is, and then it strikes him that they don't care. They don't care that she's kissed him, or that she's wiping her lipstick off his lips with a smile, or that she throws a glance at him over her shoulder. A _to be continued_ glance.

It doesn't even matter when Carmel leaves. Ste doesn't feel the relief that he expected to feel. She might be gone, but the damage has already been done.

They get to work. They're in a local corner shop this time, a terrible choice by Warren; it wouldn't be large enough for one of the groups, let alone two, but they manage to make do with a bit of shuffling and careful organising.

Ste can't focus on what they're doing, or on giving out instructions. He lets Tony do the majority of the work, and for once he's glad that he's the one taking a backseat, only having to watch while around him the rotters tidy shelves and carry out new stock and try not to scare the shop keeper half to death.

Time's slipping away. Soon he'll only have one week and six days to stop Carmel and Brendan from going to Barcelona, and he doesn't have the faintest idea how he's going to get the answers he needs. Not only that, but there's something else: what if Brendan doesn't give him a lift home tonight? _It's what we do_. He'd said that weeks ago, but what if that's over?

What if they no longer do that?

::::::

He usually can't wait for his shift to be over, but today he wants it to last, would try to keep them all here for longer if he was allowed. He's tired to the bone, knows he needs his bed, but the question that's been in his head all day is something which he can no longer brush aside. Now that the rotters are all leaving, he has to face it; he has to know if Brendan will be waiting for him in his car.

He's distracted, is making sure that the shop keeper's pleased with the work they've done, and by the time he looks around for him, Brendan's gone. That's okay; it's happened before, only for him to find Brendan waiting for him down the road. There's still a chance. There's still time.

He tells Tony he'll see him tomorrow, and he gets that feeling, that _sneakiness_ , like he's doing something he shouldn't. Tony has no idea he's waiting for Brendan, but worse is all he's already done: the many times he's been driven home in Brendan's car, and the nights they've gone to The Loft together. It's the very opposite of what Tony had told him to do, the very opposite of distance, and Ste finds himself looking over his shoulder as he walks away, just in case Tony's watching him or following him.

He waits in Jubilee Gardens, sitting by the fountain. He's got some loose change in his pocket and he aimlessly throws some into the water. He's aware that he's meant to make a wish but the whole thing seems childish somehow, like something he shouldn't believe in. He can't remember if he ever believed in things like that. He must have, once, because surely all kids do, but he can't remember ever having enough money on him to do something like that. Besides, what would he have wished for? There would have been too many things.

With every few minutes that go by it seems more unlikely that Brendan will appear. But still it seems possible, because that's what Brendan does - he just _appears_ , as if from nowhere, as though he isn't bound by locked doors or the prying eyes of other people. As though the normal rules don't apply to him. It doesn't seem strange that he could materalise now, as if by magic, as if Ste had summoned him through sheer force of will.

That's what he wishes for. He doesn't know if he does it right; it's been at least ten minutes since he put the money in the water, so this childlike superstition, whatever it entails, surely shouldn't work after that long. But he wishes for it anyhow. Wishes that when he next looks up, Brendan will be there.

He realises what he's just done, what he's just asked for. It doesn't matter if it's a stupid wish, doesn't matter if there's no way it could ever come true. He's asked for it, out of everything, and he doesn't know why.

He stands up, looks towards the fountain and knows that his change must be lying on the bottom with all the rest of it, and once he looks at it he finds he can't again; can't look anywhere near it, doesn't want to, and he's walking quickly, and he's glad that it's dark out so he's covered by the cloak of it. He's not just looking around for Tony now - he's looking around for everyone, for anyone who might have seen him sitting there, as if they could tell just from that what he'd planned to do, and exactly what he'd wished for in that fountain.

It had been a stupid, _stupid_ idea. Of course Brendan didn't come. He was never going to come. He would laugh if he'd been able to see Ste, would laugh at knowing that he'd waited and hoped. _See you later,_ Carmel had said when she'd left them that morning. She hadn't seen Brendan at lunch, so she must have meant tonight. That must be where Brendan is right now.

When Ste hears his phone ringing he expects it to be Amy. He answers it mindlessly, only registering when it's too late that the caller ID hadn't shown her name.

"Warren, now's not really -"

"Meet me at the treatment centre."

Ste stops dead in his tracks. "Has something happened?"

He's thinking about his last visit to the centre. He's thinking about how he'd talked the receptionist into letting him pass. He's thinking that Warren knows and that he's going to make him pay.

"I can't." _I won't._ "I've got to get back."

He can't think of a legitimate excuse as to why. He's almost tempted to use the kids as a reason, but he decided a long time ago that he wouldn't do that, however easy it would be. He can't lie about something happening to them, in case one day it becomes a reality.

"This isn't optional."

He can't say no. He knows he can't.

He conceals the sigh he wants to give; the half assed, _oh for fuck'_ s _sake_ sigh.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

He doesn't get a thank you, just a sharp _bye_ and the line going dead.

He trudges back in the direction he came, towards the treatment centre.

::::::

He's lucky this time: he's in his uniform and he's got his ID card on him, and he doesn't feel so much like a fraud when he walks up to reception. The receptionist gives him a smile of acknowledgment - she remembers him, and that in itself is bad - and he wonders how strange it would sound if he tried to convince her not to say anything to him if she sees him and Warren together; nothing to do with his last visit, or the one before that.

Too strange, he decides. Too suspicious.

He doesn't return the smile, only giving her the most fleeting of eye contact. He's embarrassed; embarrassed that if he engages with her at all then she'll see right through him, will know that what he's done before hasn't been above board.

He heads for the room that the HVF always use, the room where he'd first met Brendan.

A quick knock, and then a turning of the handle because he knows he'll lose his nerve and try to run away if he doesn't go in immediately.

He knows Brendan isn't inside the cage, but still he looks and remembers. Remembers his first sighting of him. Remembers the way the rotter had been watching him, his silence unnerving. Brendan hadn't been like the others; there hadn't been any pushing or kicking against the bars. There hadn't been a struggle. Ste knows it's largely because Brendan hadn't been in a rabid state, but still. Ste had never seen someone so calm at their own entrapment.

The emptiness of the cage is a relief. There wouldn't have been enough time for Warren to stage some kind of kidnap of Brendan when he'd left work for the day, bundling him into a car and dragging him out when they'd reached the treatment centre. But still Ste had imagined it: the realisation that would slowly have dawned on Brendan when he understood what was happening, and the way he'd have fought - because he would have, Ste has no doubt of that - and how he'd be doing that Brendan thing of pretending he wasn't scared or in pain, when inside he was terrified.

He's safe. He must be; he must be at home. Or - and for once the thought provides Ste with some form of comfort - with Carmel.

It's not just Warren. Danny's standing in the corner of the room. The corner spot is one Ste knows well; he'll often try to escape into it during meetings here, but there's nothing hidden about Danny. He wants Ste to see him. He wants him to know that they may not be in Warren's house, may not be in that basement, but nothing's changed. The rules are still the same.

It's unnerving. It had been different at the pub - Ste hadn't known him then, didn't know what he was capable of. But he knows that if they were to go back there now he would struggle to watch Danny in such a normal environment, sitting alongside people who Ste had known for years. Knocking back drinks like it was something he did all the time. Like he was just a normal bloke out for the night.

Danny's in a clinical environment, the walls white and so clean that they constantly look newly painted. He doesn't belong here. He belongs in the darkness of the basement, so dark that often he looks like a shadow.

"Sit," Danny says.

It's only then that Ste notices that there's a chair in front of him, and that he's expected to follow the same routine: Sit. Listen. Only talk when necessary.

He sits down, looks at Warren to try and guess how this is going to go, but he doesn't know how much importance he can put on it. Warren never looks happy, not these days.

Ste's got a million questions but he stays quiet, waits. It's not a sensible decision; it keeps him out of trouble - for now - but the anticipation makes him feel worse. They must know that. They must be enjoying it.

Danny circles him. Ste's okay when he's in front of him; at least he can see him then, know what he's doing. But it's when he's behind him that makes him hold his breath. Each time he does it he thinks this is it, that he's about to be launched upon, dragged backwards, strangled, anything - and then Danny will be in his eye line again, still not touching him.

Ste knows it's an easy way of making him scared, but it's working.

"You look nervous, Ste." There's no note of regret in Danny's voice. No apology.

"Do I?"

"You do. Don't you think, Warren?"

Warren looks like he's not entirely sure where Danny's going with this. He says nothing, looks like he's hoping it's a rhetorical question.

Ste risks speaking again.

"Why did you want to see me?"

"Straight to business then?" Danny shakes his head, seems to be pretending that they were here for small talk. "Fine. Warren, want to tell him?"

Ste's beginning to see how this is, this thing between them. Danny says go and Warren goes. Danny says stop and Warren stops.

Warren steps towards him. Ste wonders if he's relieved to be that much further away from Danny.

"We've been talking to the rabid."

Ste frowns.

"The rabid?"

"Our little friend who's been sampling Class A," Danny adds, saying friend like one might say bastard.

Ste had forgotten. He'd forgotten the rabid who had been at the treatment centre months ago, muzzle around its mouth, under the control of the doctors who had forced it into a room. He'd forgotten about the noises - the violence of the noises - and the tests that Warren had done and was going to do.

He'd forgotten it all.

He can't speak he's so ashamed.

He hadn't thought to remember. He hadn't thought that it was important. It was new, hearing about a rotter who had turned rabid from taking those kind of drugs, but it hadn't been enough to stop it from being crowded out by Veronica and Brendan and lifts home and getting out of the HVF and every other thought that had made this one vanish.

He's not sure if he still looks nervous, or if he looks sick now instead.

"What's he been saying?"

 _Is he okay?_

But it's too dangerous to ask that question. He's not supposed to care. Even the _he_ instead of _it_ feels risky; he's not sure when he started changing things like that.

"Not much, at first."

There's something about the way Danny says it; something smug. Something that suggests that this soon changed. That he was the one to change it.

"What did you do?"

 _What the fuck did you do to him?_

Months it's been. Months since the rabid first came to the treatment centre.

"Has he... has he been here all this time?"

"We had tests to do, Hay," Warren says, and there's a note of justification there. A defensiveness.

"But what about his family?" He presses it when they don't speak. "Didn't they want to see him?" He becomes more urgent when still they don't answer him. "Warren?"

"They don't know he's here."

"They don't...?" He shakes his head, understanding but not wanting to. "You didn't tell them?"

Warren looks at Danny like he's waiting for him to say something. Waiting for him to be the one to handle things here.

Ste's not going to give him a chance.

He stands up, sees the way Danny immediately moves closer to him, but he doesn't care.

"What do they think? That he's missing? That he's dead? _Months_. You've had him here for months, prodding and poking and... doing fuck knows what, and his family don't even know where he is?"

"Calm down, Hay," Warren says, but Ste's past the point of calming down.

"They must have been looking for him. Someone must have been. He's just a teenager, he can't be older than..."

He thinks of someone taking Leah or Lucas. Hours and days and weeks bleeding into each other as Ste would wonder where they were, what he could have done to stop it. Searching, desperately, and never giving up.

"Got him to talk, did you?" He goes on, can hear himself shouting. "It must have taken a while, if you've had him here all this time. What did you do to get him to speak?"

It doesn't matter if he gets an answer or not. His imagination is enough: the hours spent wearing him down, and goading him about what would happen if he kept quiet. The threat that he'd never be released. He won't have been allowed to live in comfort, this lad. Ste imagines him being locked away in a small room, the windows covered to shut out all light. It would be small and cramped, with a few meals a day to keep him strong enough to speak, to persuade him to tell them what had happened. Not enough to make it feel like any kind of luxury.

Warren would have had to say something to the doctors to convince them to let it happen. He'd feed them excuses, _it's for his own good_ and _it's for research._ What's not unbelievable is that Warren would have done this. Ste's used to it by now, the lies and the pretense that the Human Volenteer Force is doing what's right.

What's unbelievable is that they would have believed him.

Ste blinks rapidly so that the sting he feels in his eyes won't transfer to tears down his cheeks.

"You've got to let him go." It's the first time in a long time that he can remember giving Warren any kind of instruction.

Danny's laughing - laughing at him - but Ste doesn't care. He's not trying to get through to him; he knows that won't work. But there's still a chance for Warren to listen. There has to be, otherwise there's no one else who's got the authority to do anything. Even telling the council wouldn't be enough. Ste doesn't have any trust in them to uncover anything before Danny and Warren try to cover the whole thing up.

"Don't you want to know what he told us?" Danny says, and the smugness still hasn't left him. There's an air to him, a sense of superiority in that he knows something that Ste doesn't.

It doesn't matter. He no longer cares what the rotter told them. He just wants this to be over.

He's heading towards the door, is surprised how no one's stopping him.

"If you haven't let him go by tonight then I'm telling everyone."

Ultimatums aren't really his thing. But it's all he's got.

He hasn't even opened the door before he's stopped, rendered motionless by what Danny tells him.

"Brady sold him the drugs."

He doesn't turn around. He can feel his heart beating like it wants to break free from his chest.

"Brendan?" He doesn't know why he says it. There's no one else it would be. "He wouldn't."

The same lad that he was almost crying over is now under the spotlight. _His_ spotlight. He's lying. He's telling tales. He's saying what Danny and Warren want to hear. He's making things up just so he can go home.

"He didn't know his name. But a guy in his early thirties, Irish, with a moustache - pretty distinctive, don't you think?"

"That could be anyone," he dismisses, earning him another laugh from Danny. "You can't just go around accusing people."

"You don't believe he could do it?"

 _No, I don't._

But -

He can't be completely sure. There's never been a suggestion that Brendan has anything to do with drugs, but it doesn't seem so impossible. He'd told Ste that he'd managed a club when he was human, and isn't that world rife with things like that? It would be the perfect place for it. And Ste can't deny that there's still so much he doesn't know about who Brendan is, what he's done.

"He wouldn't," he says again, but this time he's not sure who it is he's trying to convince. "He lied to you, this..." He wants to say lad, or boy, but he's not sure he can anymore, not now that he knows that he's involved Brendan in all of this.

He crashes his way out of there, slamming the door behind him, barrelling his way down the hallway. He can't think straight, can't see straight; in his hurry to get out he collides into people coming in, and his muffled apology doesn't sound like him at all.

He doesn't care if Brendan doesn't want to see him. He needs answers.

::::::

It's the third time he's been to his flat now.

The first time he can pass off as a mistake. The second a lapse of judgement. But he's not sure what to call this time; not sure that there are any more excuses he can give.

He's so prepared to see Brendan's face when the door opens that he has to rearrange his features when it's Cheryl who answers. He has to dilute his fury, has to remember how to look normal again.

"Ste!" She sounds pleased to see him; looks it too, breaking into a smile that seems nothing but genuine. He's as confused by it as he'd been the first time. He doesn't know her, not really, but the way she acts towards him makes him feel like he does.

"How are you?" he asks, because that's what people do when they go round to each other's houses, isn't it? That's what you do when you see someone. That's _normal_.

"I'm great. Just making something for dinner."

He sees now that she's wearing an apron, and she opens the door a little, giving him a glimpse inside of the kitchen and the sofa where they'd sat and had tea, all three of them.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have come round." He's backing away, his earlier resolve gone. He'd hoped that the place would be empty like it had been the last time. He hadn't banked on Cheryl being here, with her welcoming him like him coming over is a nice surprise. The scene he was going to cause, and the questions he was going to ask - it can't happen, not now. Not with her here.

But just as she'd once steered him into the spare bedroom to change into Brendan's clothes, she guides him back towards her, almost makes him slip he's in such a desperate rush to escape.

"Don't be silly, you're welcome anytime."

 _Am I? I barely know you. You barely know me._

"Thanks, but -"

"You can keep me company while I'm making dinner. Brendan's not helping." She rolls her eyes a little, but Ste can tell that it's in good humour; out of affection for her brother's ways, no maliciousness behind her words.

So he is here. Brendan's inside, and he might be listening in to their conversation right this second.

Maybe he can still do this. It's not going to be as he intended - there won't be any shouting or confrontations, at least not public ones - but it doesn't mean he can't get Brendan on his own somehow, speak to him behind closed doors and away from Cheryl.

And there's another reason why Ste wants to stay: the knowledge that Brendan will hate it if he does.

"Okay." He smiles, trying to calm himself now that his mind's made up. He's surprised Cheryl hasn't cottoned on to something being wrong, but Ste's already witnessed the way Brendan seems to have her fooled. "Thanks, that would be good."

Even with Cheryl here, the door closing behind him is still unsettling.

He takes his coat off, hangs it on the back of the sofa. Just like the first time, he sees reminders of Brendan everywhere he goes; a pair of his socks left to dry, a crisp white shirt on the ironing board, and a bottle of whiskey which Ste guesses is his. He looks away, feeling caught out.

He follows Cheryl through to the kitchen. It's small but homely, just like the rest of the place. He's reminded of Brendan's appetite every lunchtime, how he has no shame about what he eats, how he eats. Ste wonders if he likes spending his time off here, having lunch on the small table in the corner of the kitchen, not having to sit next to Rhys or Malachy, not having a uniformed HVF member opposite him.

Stupid thing to wonder really.

"Make yourself comfortable love." Cheryl nods over to the table, and Ste draws back a chair, tries not to feel like he's a spare part as she resumes cooking, stirring something in a pot that he can't see.

"What are you making?"

"Irish stew. It's one of our Bren's favourites."

There it is again. _Bren._

The lack of comprehension must show on his face, because Cheryl goes on.

"Lamb, potatoes, carrots, onions. That kind of thing."

"Sounds good."

"It's amazing." And then, like she's had a revelation, she says, "You should stay, have some with us."

Fuck.

"No, don't worry."

"It's no bother. We'd love it."

Ste's about to say that he really doubts that _we_ would love it, but he knows that his whole story is that he's a friend of Brendan's, and if that falls apart then Cheryl will want to know what the hell he's doing here.

"Really, it's... I should get back to Amy, so."

"Amy?" She looks blank, and it's then that he remembers that Cheryl won't have a clue about Amy, or about the kids. Brendan won't have told her, won't have mentioned him at all. Why would he?

"She's the mother of my kids."

"Kids?"

She looks surprised, and it takes him a minute to see that it's not in that judgmental, _oh so that's what you are_ kind of way that people have looked at him in the past, where they've immediately decided that they're better than him, all based on the fact that he got his girlfriend knocked up as a teenager, and they didn't.

"Two. Leah and Lucas." He decides it's safe to reveal it; Brendan already knows, and he doesn't see what harm Cheryl's going to do with the information.

"But you're just a wee... Twenty one, did you say?"

"Yeah."

"You look younger." He must look put out, because she laughs. "It's a good thing, babe. It will be once you get older, anyway."

He lets the babe thing pass; truth be told he doesn't mind it so much, not from her.

"So you and Amy, you're not..." She frowns, then corrects herself. "No, of course you're not."

"What do you mean, of course we're not?" He wonders if Cheryl's seen Amy around the village and that she thinks - correctly, but still offensively - that she's too good for him.

"I just mean, Brendan would have told me. That's all."

Ste doesn't understand why, but she's on to the next question before he can ask her.

"Call her if you like. Amy. You can use our phone, save you the credit if you're running out. Let her know that you'll be back later."

 _She really wants me to stay._

Ste sneaks a look into the spare bedroom. The door's open, and unless Brendan's hiding behind it he's not there. He must be upstairs. He surely would have heard that they've got company by now; Cheryl's not exactly what you'd call quiet. It annoys him, the idea of Brendan waiting up there - waiting for the right moment, whatever that is - and listening in.

But he isn't running down the stairs and stopping Cheryl from inviting him to stay, or kicking Ste out. That's got to count for something.

"Thank you. That's dead nice of you."

He gets his phone out, sends a quick text to Amy while Cheryl's stirring the pot.

 _At a friend's house. Be back in a couple of hours xx_

He has no intention of staying that long, but he always adds extra time on so she doesn't worry. The friend thing will be trickier to explain - she know there's only Tony, and he would have mentioned him by name if they were spending time together. He puts it to one side; he can iron out the details later.

For now he has to survive this meal.

"Done," he says, putting his phone away. "Thanks again."

"No problem. It'll be lovely to have you here."

 _Why?_ He wants to ask her, but he's scared of making her suspicious. Maybe it's so rare to see Brendan with a friend - real or fake, doesn't matter as long as she thinks it's genuine - that she's resorted to this: this kindness, this gratitude like Ste's done something wonderful.

He doesn't deserve it. Not after what he's done, and not with what he's going to do.

His answer is a smile, and he settles back in his seat and watches as she cooks. He can't deny that it smells good, and he's beginning to feel better about his decision to stay; at least he'll get a decent meal out of it, if nothing else. But still there's that nagging worry over why Brendan hasn't come downstairs, and what will happen when he does.

"Do you cook?" Cheryl says. She's making small talk, and it occurs to him that he's probably not the best guest in the world, sitting in silence worrying about her brother ripping his throat out.

"Not really," he admits, wondering whether he ought to go into detail about the many takeaways that he and Amy have had over the years. "Tony's always offering to teach me how to make stuff, but..."

He stops, the sentence not so much trailing off but cutting off entirely. He's aware of his breathing, how it's in short, shallow gasps now. The space from where he's sitting and Cheryl's standing isn't that far; he imagines her hearing his panic and turning towards him, asking him: _How do you know Tony? How do you know the man who's running the group that Brendan goes to every day?_ And then the web of lies will unravel.

But she doesn't turn towards him. She doesn't ask him. She doesn't hear him, not from what he can tell. The moment passes.

 _Antony_. Is that how Brendan's referred to him, and how she hasn't picked up on the name drop? Or maybe Brendan hasn't even mentioned him; there seems to be no recognition at all when Cheryl says, casual as anything, "Tony?"

"My friend," Ste says, and that's it. Nothing more to it. "I can help now, if you want. With the cooking. I mean, I can try." He's only suggesting it to distract her, but he finds it's a relief when he can stand and put some distance between himself and the spare room. It's removing the temptation to look there again and remember the wet clothes and the spare vest which currently resides in the back of his drawers at home.

Cheryl gets out a chopping board for him, passing him a handful of potatoes to peel. He doesn't know whether she's giving him an easy task out of fear that he'll be hapless even at that, but he enjoys it; the methodical nature of it, the way that he doesn't seem to be messing it up. He seeks her approval a couple of times, showing her his work to check that he hasn't done something disastrously wrong. She nods, smiles, and when he's finished with the potatoes she gives him something else to do. The radio isn't on in the background like he's used to at home when he's putting something in the microwave or washing up, but that's okay - she says little things here and there, and so does he - and by the time they're finished he feels an underlying sense of disappointment that there isn't more to do.

It's also closer to the moment he's been dreading. Brendan can't stay up there all evening, not when Cheryl's gone to all this effort for him.

"Are you celebrating anything, or does Brendan get this five star treatment every night?"

She laughs.

"He hasn't had a lot of this. Not since... Well, since everything with Eileen went the way it did. I thought he deserved it, you know? After everything he's been through."

Ste can't look at her. If she knew what involvement he'd personally had in Brendan's life recently then none of this would be happening. The invitation, the meal, the smiles, and these small clues about Brendan's life before he'd moved to Chester.

"Don't worry, I'll expect him to do the same for me sometime. Not that he can cook, but..." She laughs again, puts the finished dish in the oven and sets the timer afterwards. "Right, that's done. You should take your friend up on his offer. You're good at that, you know."

"What, peeling some potatoes and chopping some carrots up? Give over."

"I'm serious. And you liked it, didn't you?"

Had he been that obvious? That transparent that he'd actually enjoyed the whole routine of it, and how he'd imagined what Amy and the kids would think of him if they came home and he had that on the table. Not something pre-made from the local chippie, but something that _he'd_ made.

"Yeah," he says, because his face must have already said it all, and it's only her here. "Yeah, I did."

When he looks outside of the flat's windows he sees that it's dark out. His jacket's still on the sofa, in the exact spot where he left it, so his loose change that he'd left in there can't have gone anywhere. He would have heard Brendan if he'd snuck down here and stole it, using the lost money as an excuse to give him a lift home.

Not that it's a guarantee that Brendan would even want to do that, not after being a no-show after work.

"Sorry Ste, I don't know why he hasn't come down." She looks towards the stairs like it's enough to conjure him up. "He's not usually this rude."

 _You really don't know him at all._

She raises her voice, _Brendan_ , but there's no answer.

Somehow Ste can't imagine Brendan listening to music, headphones plugged in like an antisocial teenager. The rotter seems to be around at the oddest of times, when Ste least expects him, so for him to have disappeared now is unusual. Ste doesn't trust it.

Unless he's not here at all. He could have been gone this whole time, running to the McQueen's house and holing himself up in Carmel's bedroom.

But why would he lie? It doesn't make any sense. Ste doesn't know how Cheryl feels about Brendan and Carmel, but he can't see why Brendan would have to hide it, not at his age.

"Do us a favour and go up and get him, won't you love?"

Ste looks at her, dumbstruck.

"Me?"

"He'll be up there all night otherwise."

"We can wait can't we? Dinner's not going to be ready for a while yet, is it?"

"As much as I've loved having your help, you didn't come here to see me, did you?" Cheryl gives him a nudge on the shoulder. "You'll be wanting to see him."

"But -"

"Go on, go up. I'll get the knives and forks out. Tell him he's setting the table though. He can't get away with not doing any of the work." She winks at him, leaves him by the stairs.

He's got a hand on the banister but he isn't moving.

He's going to attract Cheryl's attention if he stays here any longer. He knows it's stupid; he's been locked in a cage with Brendan, so walking up the stairs to his bedroom should be nothing. But even being in his home feels like an invasion, so being in Brendan's personal space - the most personal - feels like something else entirely. He hasn't even begun to consider what his bedroom might look like: what colour the walls are, whether everything's in its right place or sprawled all over the floor like it tends to be in Ste's room, clothes scattered across the carpet. And what is Brendan even _doing_ up there? If he's not listening to music then is he watching TV, or on the computer, or talking to someone on the phone? It sounds deadly silent up there, and Ste wishes for something, anything which could give him a clue as to what Brendan's doing.

There's only one way to find out.

He takes a step, makes himself keep going until he's half way upstairs. There's no creaking like there is at Ste's flat; no squeaking floorboard that Brendan had inexplicably known about. His hand feels warm against the banister, clammy, and with every movement forward he's expecting to jump out of his skin, expecting Brendan to be there waiting to push him down the stairs, or worse. Much worse.

He reaches the top of the stairs, steps onto the landing. He takes a quick look around, scans the rooms and locates the bathroom and what he guesses must be Cheryl's bedroom going by the decor.

The other room - the only room left - has its door closed.

"Brendan?" It's a timid call, and he's not surprised when he doesn't get a reply.

When he turns around and looks back at the way he came, it seems a long way. Too long to reach if he was grabbed and pulled.

He can't hear Cheryl anymore, can't hear the sound of her in the kitchen or the cutlery being brought out.

He says it again, _Brendan_ , but it's no good. He's going to have to go in.

He hadn't expected anything outwardly unusual, but still it's a shock. It's just a door, just like it's just a flat, just like Cheryl's just his sister, just like he's just a human if you don't look hard enough.

He knocks.

"Come in."

He doesn't know if he's relieved or not that he's here, that he isn't at the McQueen's. Ste can't discern anything from Brendan's voice, doesn't know if he's primed with tension, ready to snap, or if going into his room will be as normal as if Ste were entering his own.

He turns the handle slowly and opens the door, taking a step inside.

Now he understands why Brendan hadn't come downstairs. Now he understands why he'd wanted him to come up. He's trapped him.

"You're not going anywhere."


	25. Chapter 25

He's bundled inside the room, the door closed behind him. Closed and locked.

He's shoved against the wall. Nothing new. There's nothing new in the way that Brendan's looking at him either, his face inches away from Ste's, an anger there that needs no words behind it. There's nothing new in the way he's holding Ste's T-shirt, the collar of it bunched in Brendan's fist.

What's new is that Ste isn't scared, because he knows something now. Something he didn't know before.

What's new is that he's in Brendan's bedroom.

He eyes move around the room; to the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the bed.

"I told you not to ever come here again."

"Relax, I didn't say anything to your sister."

"Never again, Steven."

He _should_ feel scared. Brendan's stronger than him, and his fury at being defied makes him stronger. But Ste knows that even he wouldn't be reckless enough to hurt him with his sister in the flat. What's he going to do, dispose of his dead body out of the bedroom window?

But it's not just that. It's not just the practicalities of the situation that makes Ste convinced that Brendan won't hurt him. If Brendan wanted to attack him then he could have done it already, plenty of times. He could have killed him. He could have told everyone about his dyslexia. He could have hurt the kids and Amy.

He didn't have to protect his secret. He didn't have to go out for a drink with him. He didn't have to give him rides home. He didn't have to say _This is what we do._ He didn't have to make them into a _we_.

He doesn't realise he's smiling until Brendan says "What?" He's looking at his lips.

"Nothing."

"Something funny, Steven?"

It makes him increase his hold on him, but for Ste's it's all for show now, a sequence of events, a going through the motions. Brendan's doing what he thinks he should be doing.

"I do have a joke to tell actually, yeah."

"Please. Go on."

He gathers all the courage he has. He isn't going to bottle this.

"There's this guy, right. This guy who meets a woman."

"So far so predictable, but keep going," Brendan says.

"Turns out that they both know the same person."

"Fascinating, Steven. Really."

He's made him nervous though, Ste can see it. Brendan doesn't know where this is going, and it's putting him on edge. He can't predict this, not like he does with everything else.

"So the guy tries to think how the girl knows the other person. Oh, by the way - this other person? Not really a person. He's a rotter, see."

Ste doesn't miss the flicker of recognition in Brendan's eyes. He's listening carefully now, his hands still on Ste's T-shirt but all the force and strength gone from his touch.

"Where was I? Oh yeah. So the guy does some digging, tries to find out the connection, but he can't. It's like it's some big secret, like they both don't want him to know."

"Maybe because it's none of his business."

"Or maybe because it's something dangerous. Something illegal."

"Quite some imagination he's got there."

"He just knows when he's being lied to," Ste says, and the triumph of having something over Brendan fades away, and he remembers. He remembers that if all of this is true, then he's been wrong all this time. Brendan could have been laughing behind his back all along, knowing that all the car rides and all the days spent together haven't meant anything, because Ste couldn't even see what was right in front of him.

 _Why did you lie to me? Why couldn't you tell me?_

Ste knows why, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

"Is this story going anywhere, or...?"

"Forget the story. Forget the joke."

"Good, because I gotta tell you - it's not one of your best, Steven. They're meant to have a punchline, you know?"

He shoves Brendan, watches as he topples back. Ste knows it's not the force of it that sends him stumbling, it's the shock. Brendan looks at him, doesn't seem to know how to respond. Doesn't know whether to hit back.

Ste doesn't give him a chance.

"How could you do that to me?" He's shouting now, and he knows Cheryl could hear but she seems distant from this, distant from them. Her world has nothing to do with their world. "I defended you. I could have sold you out in that library, told them all that you started the argument. I could have..."

He could have told Danny and Warren everything. All the little details that he's kept from them that would build a bigger picture, that would be all the evidence they need when they say that Brendan's death was necessary, that it was to keep the village safer.

He could have done everything differently.

"What are you talking about?" Brendan says, but he knows what Ste's talking about. He knows but he's going to deny it.

"You're a drug dealer, aren't you?"

Brendan's good at this, good at lying. He puts on the act of being speechless, and even through Ste's anger he feels fascinated by watching such a master at work: the false shock, the disbelief, the refusal.

"A drug dealer? What do you think this is? What do you think I am?"

"I think you're a liar. I think you're a liar who's been giving out drugs to rotters, and you know what it's making them do, don't you? You must know."

Brendan fakes innocence.

"They're becoming rabid, Brendan. _Rabid_. I've seen it, I've..." He has to be careful, has to filter his words, has to be mindful of what he can and cannot say. He has to make sure he doesn't mention anything about Danny Houston. "That's because of _you_. You and Veronica. She's involved, isn't she? She must be. What's she doing, getting your supply for you, or is she giving it out as well?"

He laughs, laughs at himself. He'd been consumed by the worry that Brendan and Veronica were together, that she was cheating on him. That version seems a hell of a lot more simple than this one.

"How long has this been going on for?"

"There's nothing _going_ on. It's all in your head."

Ste ignores him. They're beyond that now. He's not going to believe that he's got this wrong.

"I bet it started the moment you got here, didn't it? That's probably how you can afford all those bloody suits of yours. Drug dealing pays well, doesn't it? I bet that's what you tell yourself when you send the money back home to your kids, that you're doing it for them."

He gets a hand around his throat for that, but Ste's ready for it; he hadn't expected a slight against Brendan's kids to pass unnoticed. He'd done it on purpose. He'd wanted Brendan to hurt.

He sees Brendan sniff the air. Smell him.

"Here's what's going to happen," Ste says. His throat's constricted but he can still get the words out, and he knows Brendan can hear him, is standing close enough.

He's had time to think about this. He's planned it out.

 _Here's what's going to happen. Brendan's going to come with me to the treatment centre. Warren and Danny will be there - I'll call them in the bathroom and tell them everything - and they'll be waiting for us. They'll get a recorded confession from Brendan, and then they'll let me kill him. It'll be enough, this evidence. Enough to convince them that now is the time, and that the council will understand. Warren will invent a story, say that it got too dangerous to let Brendan live. Say that he attacked us, that either he died or the rest of us would. And I'll be able to move away, start somewhere new. I'll get a new job, and we'll have a new life. Me, Amy, Leah and Lucas. Free._

He puts a hand over Brendan's, removes it from his throat, and Brendan lets him. Ste doesn't let go of his hand.

"We're going downstairs and we're going to eat."

Brendan frowns. "What?"

"I'm hungry."

"Steven -"

"And then we're going to see the McQueens. We're going to see Carmel."

"Carmel?"

"Yes. And you're going to tell her that you've had a change of heart, if you have one. That you've decided that Barcelona doesn't sound so good after all, and that you'd rather stay here. No offense Brendan, but I don't think you'd suit a tan. That stuff," he points to the cover up mousse, "is orange enough as it is."

No acting is required. This time Brendan really does look speechless.

"I don't care if you need to go there. I don't care if you've got a million bags of drugs to push. I don't care if you booked it just so you could see Carmel in a bikini. You're not going."

"I'm going to Barcelona, Steven."

"No you're not. And if you even try to step foot on that plane then I'm going to tell the Human Volenteer Force everything I know. I'll tell them about Veronica."

"You gonna tell them that you slept with her too?"

That almost stops him in his tracks. Almost.

"This isn't a deal, Brendan. We're not going to shake on it." As he says it he realises that he's still holding Brendan's hand; he drops it. "You're doing it. End of."

Ste nods, satisfied.

"Now let's eat."

::::::

This may be the best idea he's had in his life, or the worst.

He feels powerful and powerless. He's never been in control like this before, and that's the problem. He doesn't know what happens next. Failure is familiar. Being pushed around is strangely comforting in its predictability. But this - being the one to tell Brendan what to do - is new territory.

He hasn't been killed yet. He's waiting for it, waiting for Brendan to snap. They come into the kitchen slowly, Brendan trailing behind, but Ste knows it's only a matter of time before he regains his composure and starts thinking about how he can fix this. Ste's aware of him watching as he takes a bottle of beer out of the fridge at Cheryl's insistence. Brendan's arranging the cutlery on the table; Ste doesn't know if he's doing it on purpose but it isn't exactly putting his mind at ease to see Brendan looking at him with a knife in his hand.

He spends the first ten minutes of the dinner wondering how likely it is that he'll make it through the evening without being stabbed.

The seating arrangements aren't helping either; Brendan's directly opposite him at the table and he can't seem to tear his eyes away.

"Ste helped me to make it, Bren." Cheryl doesn't appear to notice that anything's amiss, and Ste wonders if she's been this utterly clueless her whole life, and how ideal it must be for Brendan if she has. He won't ever have had to answer to her, because she'll never have known anything.

"Did he now."

"Proper little professional, this one."

There are far more serious things to be thinking about, but still Ste can feel himself colouring. It _does_ look professional, and he knows that he had a minimal part in it, but the fact that he contributed at all and didn't fuck it up means something.

"Does it taste alright? Mine's too hot still." He blows on it and catches Brendan staring at the movement of his lips. He puts his fork down.

"It's amazing. Best Irish stew I've ever had. Ste should come and cook for us more often, shouldn't he Brendan?"

Brendan doesn't commit to it either way; just grunts in what must be common for him in these parts as much as it is at work, because Cheryl doesn't press him to say more.

Ste hadn't been lying when he'd said he was hungry, but that's not why he's putting himself through this excruciating dinner. He needs Brendan to know that he meant everything he said. Ste wouldn't put it past him to head to the nearest airport if he lets him out of his sight even for a minute, Carmel and passports in tow. He knows that he hasn't figured everything out yet; just because Brendan will cancel the holiday this time, it doesn't mean that he won't go to Carmel and say he's changed his mind when Ste's not around. But this is a start. This is the first step.

Besides, it's kind of fun to watch Brendan squirm in the presence of his sister.

He's poised, ready to react at the necessary moment if Ste brings up the very subject which he's trying to keep hidden. Ste's not stupid; he isn't going to say anything to Cheryl, not if Brendan follows through with his plan and tells Carmel that the holiday's cancelled. He knows that Cheryl's approval means everything to Brendan, that the thought of losing it is almost worse than Warren and the HVF knowing everything.

The meal cools down enough for him to start eating it properly. Cheryl was right; it's amazing. He washes it down with some beer, notices that Brendan's poured himself a whiskey. Ste's always hated the taste of the stuff, but he hasn't minded the smell of it on Brendan's breath when he's leaned in close.

He doesn't miss the way that Brendan's glaring at him across the table.

There's a lull in the conversation, and Cheryl tries to fill in the gaps.

"Brendan phoned the kids today."

Brendan puts down his knife and fork with a clatter that causes both of them to look.

"Chez." He shakes his head, stiffens.

"What?"

"Steven doesn't want to hear about the boys."

Actually Ste really does, more than he should want to. All he knows are the plainest of details - their names, where they live - and he can't deny that he's desperate to know more, to form a picture in his mind of these two boys that Brendan's left back home. He wants to know if they're like Brendan - difficult, argumentative, hostile - or if they're something else entirely.

"Of course he does," Cheryl says. "Why wouldn't he?"

Brendan hasn't got an answer for her, not one that won't arouse suspicion.

"Has he shown you a picture?"

Brendan seems to shrink into himself.

"No," Ste says.

Just that alone sets her off, and she's drawing back her chair and leaving her half-eaten stew on the table. She's not gone for long enough for Brendan to threaten him, but Ste knows he'd like to. Brendan hadn't even wanted him to know his kids exist, let alone see what they look like.

Cheryl's back with her phone, and Brendan's looking like it would be less torturous for his sister to start handing round his baby photos.

"There you go. Eileen sent it yesterday."

Ste takes the phone from her, stares at the screen. There are two boys in the picture - one looks in his early teens, one not yet in them - and they've got their arms round each other. The older lad has dirty blond hair, the kind that could turn lighter in the sun, and the younger is darker, his colouring closer to Brendan's. Ste's not sure he'd know they were related just by appearances, and as he looks from the photo to Brendan he sees something that makes him hand the phone back to Cheryl. He looks _sad_.

"They're sweet," he says, but even as the words are coming out of his mouth it feels like they're not his to say. That photo was private, private to Brendan, and now Ste's taken that away from him. "That's good, isn't it? Eileen sending it to you. That must mean that she... you know. She's trying."

He isn't sure why he's saying this, isn't sure why it feels an awful lot like reassurance.

"It's a start, isn't it Brendan?" Cheryl says.

She gets the usual grunt, and a clearing of his throat. Ste risks a glance at him; he's looking down at the meal in front of him, and he looks ready to overturn the whole table, pressure building up inside of him. Ste can feel it from where he's sitting, and he doesn't understand how Cheryl can't.

"The next step is getting them to visit."

"Do you think they might?" Ste asks, and he's curious now, curious enough to ignore Brendan's obvious discomfort. It's the idea of it, the two of them - Padraig and Declan - being here, and meeting them. He wants to know. He wants to know everything: what they're like, if they're like _him_. He wants to see the three of them together.

"Cheryl." Brendan's got a hand on his forehead, his eyes closed, and he's stroking his temple like he can stroke the tension away with it. It takes Ste a minute or two to look at the ring of black around Brendan's fingernails. He always used to notice that first.

She gets it now. They must have had this conversation before, because she seems to know the procedure; she apologises and it slips easily off her tongue, an apology worn too well. She reaches forward, makes a beeline for the bottle of whiskey that she'd laid at the centre of the table earlier. Brendan holds his glass up, drinks from it eagerly, quickly. Ste watches the movement of his Adam's apple.

"Ste?" She offers him the bottle.

"No, ta. I'll stick with my beer." He needs to keep a clear head. Being in a rotter's house is foolish enough, but being drunk in a rotter's house is a death wish. And he has a track record of not being able to pace himself where Brendan's concerned.

He sucks on the bottle, tracks Brendan's eyes on him as he does it. It feels like his swallows turn to gulps.

"I'll be back in a second."

He motions to the beer he's spilt over his wrist.

He runs the tap in the sink, and he senses before he sees that Brendan's behind him. He doesn't jump. He doesn't react.

"I didn't mean to talk about your kids." he whispers, because he knows why Brendan's here, and he knows it's a warning. "She just brought them up, didn't she."

"And you just had to talk about them."

"I was being polite." He doesn't tell Brendan that he wanted to know. He's not sure what he'd do with that kind of information. "She's going to start thinking all sorts if you don't sit back down."

Even as he says it he doesn't believe it: Brendan could have him pinned down on the table and Cheryl would still think the sun shined out of him.

"I'm helping you clean your hands, Steven."

"Oh yeah, because that takes two doesn't it?"

Brendan certainty isn't trying to help. All he's doing is standing close behind him, so close that Ste can feel the heat coming off him. He leans back involuntarily.

"I'm sorry," he says. He is. He shouldn't be, but he is. He lets the water run; he's taking longer than he needs, but he's not ready to go back to the table yet. He's even quieter when he speaks again; he's giving Brendan the option to pretend he hasn't heard him. To ignore him. "How are things? You know, with... your kids."

If Brendan's shocked by his question then Ste can't see it. He's glad he can't.

There's a gap of silence, so long that Ste thinks he isn't going to say anything.

"Terrible."

Ste turns round to face him. It feels wrong to have his back turned now, after what Brendan's just said.

"But Cheryl just said -"

"That's Cheryl," Brendan dismisses, and Ste gets it. She sugarcoats it. "They don't want to know."

"But Eileen? And the picture?"

"Cheryl had to beg her to send it."

Ste can't believe they're doing this. He can't believe Brendan's actually talking to him. No lies. No smokescreens. He wants to keep going, but he's afraid; afraid that if he pushes him too far or asks the wrong question then he'll ruin it all.

"They'll come round. They will," he insists, when all Brendan can do is shake his head.

"You don't know what's happened, Steven."

 _Then tell me. Tell me everything._

"They're better off away from me, right?" Then it's Brendan's turn to whisper. "A _drug dealer._ "

It should give Ste some satisfaction, hearing Brendan admitting it.

"You wouldn't want your kids to be around me, would you?"

Brendan heads back to the table before Ste can answer. Before he can think what his answer would be.

::::::

It's not that he intends to be nosy. He just wants to look around, is all.

He guesses that Cheryl cleans the bathroom the most; it looks far too immaculate to be Brendan's work.

It's small and he knows it's unlikely that he'll find much of anything here, but still he looks. He opens the small cabinet above the sink, expects to find the usual - some paracetamol, plasters, deodorant, some aftershave, and the little every day items that Amy keeps in theirs - that nail polish liquid with its clinical smell, and makeup remover. Ste picks a bottle up - cleansing milk, the label reads - and he wonders if this is what Brendan uses to take off his cover up mousse, or if only soap and water will do. How much of this stuff would he need, and how hard would he need to scrub? Would it leave his skin red and raw afterwards?

He puts it back.

He picks up the aftershave, reads the brand and says it out loud, tries to work out if he's pronouncing it right. He looks over his shoulder; he knows the door's locked but Brendan has a habit of getting past minor details like that.

No one's there.

He uncaps the aftershave, sprays some onto his neck. He smells like Brendan. Almost.

He puts the aftershave back and pushes the packets of painkillers to one side, searching. He knows that Brendan isn't stupid enough to keep anything incriminating in here. If he's got a stash of drugs then he won't be storing them in the bathroom he shares with his sister. That's what Warren and Danny would want him to be looking for; the drugs.

Ste doesn't know what he's looking for.

Before he leaves the bathroom - flushing the chain and running the water for appearances' sake - he considers removing the aftershave with a cloth in case Brendan smells it on his skin. In case he doesn't particularly want to be smelling of the rotter for the rest of the day.

He leaves it on.

::::::

They're onto dessert now. Apple crumble with custard, and it turns out Cheryl isn't one to be stingy with portion sizes.

"I'm stuffed, Chez." Brendan rubs his stomach as if to prove it, the hem of his shirt riding up. Ste can see a taut stomach underneath.

"Since when did you ever turn down food?"

Brendan looks like he's going to say something, but then he breaks into a smile when Cheryl puts the the bowl in front of him, the custard so hot that Ste can see the steam from where he's sitting.

"If you insist."

"Ste?" Cheryl offers, and he says yes, perhaps a little too eagerly. It doesn't seem to bother Cheryl; she even offers him a portion to take home to Amy.

"Custard to take home? Come on," Brendan says, and he's still got the warmth in his voice that he always has with Cheryl, but there's irritation beneath the surface too.

Ste feels like it's an unmistakable dig at Amy, even though he hasn't even directly mentioned her.

"Alright, grumpy." Cheryl looks at him, shakes her head. Then, like she's had a light-bulb moment, she says, "I know what it is."

"What?"

"You're jealous, aren't you?"

Brendan stops eating. He's stock-still.

"Jealous," he repeats, and then it comes, that laughter with that mania to it. Ste's heard it plenty of times, but he's never heard it around Cheryl before.

"Because I didn't thank you for the dinner."

The laughter stops.

Cheryl looks at Ste, then rolls her eyes towards her brother.

"Honestly, Ste. This one's jealous that you're getting the credit. What's he like, eh?"

"I don't..." He doesn't understand. He's still hearing that word, _jealous_ , and he's still hearing that laughter.

"Bren took me shopping for all the ingredients earlier after work. I can't drive, see - I'm learning, but..."

"But she's failed three times," Brendan says, his mouth full now, looking like he's trying not to laugh.

"Yes, okay... Anyway, soon I'll be able to, but until then this one's been at my beck and call when I need him."

 _Earlier. After work._

Ste moves a section of his crumble with his spoon to the left, then to the right. Processing. Working this all out.

"So you went there after Brendan finished work?"

Does he sound casual? Like he doesn't care either way? He isn't sure.

"That's right," Cheryl says. "He was happy to when he found out I'd be cooking for him, mind."

He hadn't left him. Brendan hadn't been a no-show because he hated him, or because he'd changed his mind about them, the drives home, everything. Or if he does - if he does hate him - then Ste doesn't know that for sure, not yet. There's every chance that Brendan might not give him a lift home tomorrow, but there's every chance that he will. Nothing feels set in stone anymore. Nothing feels closed off or lost.

There's hope, a spark of it that makes Ste feel something that had abandoned him completely as he'd been waiting by that fountain, making that wish. _Excitement_.

For some reason he can't seem to stop smiling for the rest of the dinner.

::::::

The evening's drawing to a close. They've tidied everything away, Ste offering to at least dry the dishes when Cheryl refuses to let him wash up, and he's got a plastic container with him ready to take home to Amy, crumble and custard as promised. He hadn't missed the very loud tutting noises coming from Brendan's direction when Cheryl had put a portion aside. _To take to that wee girl of yours._

He's going to have to make up an excuse, tell Amy that it's one of Tony's homemade desserts.

He looks at Brendan expectedly. It shouldn't be too hard to get out of here together; they can feed Cheryl a line about grabbing a beer or Brendan walking him home. Then straight round to the McQueens. Ste will give them some distance while Brendan's letting Carmel down - he doesn't want this rejection to be a public humiliation for her as well - and then they'll leave, let her lick her wounds. Done.

He hasn't thought about what he'll say to Warren and Danny, or what it means now that they think that Brendan's a dealer. What he's thought about is that moment after work when Brendan will pick him up in his car, and they'll drive off with the radio playing and Ste will wind down the window and lean out, and he'll close his eyes and feel the air against his skin and he'll listen to Brendan swear and talk about how ridiculous a certain song is. That's what he's thought about.

But Brendan isn't looking at him.

"I'm just gonna..."

He sprints up the stairs, and Ste hears the bang of a door shutting.

He waits. He sits on the sofa, aware of Cheryl behind him cleaning the surfaces in the kitchen. He'd help her if he thought he was capable of it, if he didn't suddenly feel so odd. He reminds himself that Brendan's only gone upstairs, and that he's bound to be back any moment. But it's something about how he'd looked, and how he'd walked - _ran_ \- away from him. He'd looked panicked.

He'd looked like something had happened.

There's music blasting from his room now. Ste doesn't know how Cheryl can take it, and the lack of a reaction from her tells him that she must be used to this. This must be something Brendan does.

 _You can run on for a long time_

 _Run on for a long time_

 _Sooner or later God'll cut you down_

"Cheryl?" She turns around, smiles at him. "Is it okay if I go upstairs?"

She gives him a look. A _you're daft_ kind of look.

"Of course, babe. You don't have to ask! Go ahead."

He'd sort of wanted her to say no.

He goes upstairs, the music growing louder the closer he gets, his resolve wavering. He should have known that something would go wrong; the dinner had been too normal, and an evening with Brendan could never have ended like that.

"Brendan."

He knocks, waits. This is the second time he's gone up to Brendan's bedroom; the first time hadn't ended well, and nothing about this tells him that it will end any better. The silence is more chilling than any argument. He'd rather hear Brendan's voice, feel the brunt of his anger if he's done something wrong than deal with this void, this nothingness.

"Brendan, I'm coming in."

He opens the door in one swift movement. It's like ripping off a plaster; better for the pain to be over now than prolong the agony.

The room's still. Empty.

Ste steps inside, wondering if he's missed something, if Brendan's in the corner. Even as he thinks it he knows it can't be true. Hs eyes would be drawn to Brendan straight away, the focal point in every room.

He's got one of those record players. It's the kind that Rae would dream of getting for herself; she used to try her luck at clubs with her homemade mixes. But her music was nothing like this, this country twang, this style of rock and roll that belongs more in an old film than in this time, this world.

 _Go tell that long tongue liar_

 _Go and tell that midnight rider_

 _Tell the rambler_

 _The gambler_

 _The back biter_

 _Tell them that God's gonna cut them down_

The memory of Rae flickers and fades. He can't hold onto it.

He checks the window, expects to see it wide open and the curtain blowing, a Brendan shaped print on the pavement below.

It's closed. He must still be inside the flat.

He hesitates. He doesn't want to leave. He wants to do what he thought about doing the first time he came up here: take a closer look. In the wardrobe, in the drawers. Under the bed. Brendan's just as unlikely to leave anything suspicious here as he was in the bathroom. It's not evidence that Ste wants to look for.

It's Brendan. It's anything that belongs to him. Anything that tells Ste who he is. He'll know what he's looking for when he sees it; know that it's another piece of the puzzle. And would it really be so bad? Brendan seems to think that there's nothing wrong with insinuating that he's been inside Ste's flat, and what's to stop him from looking around if he has been there? What if he's been in Ste's room, on Ste's bed?

What if he's looked in his drawers and found the vest?

He shakes the thought from his head. He can't allow himself to think that.

He has to leave right now to stop himself from looking. To stop himself from getting caught. When he comes outside the bedroom the bathroom door is closed; he must have not noticed it before.

He listens at the door but it's difficult to hear anything. The music's drowning everything out, and it feels dangerous to be standing this close. If Brendan were to open the door right now they'd collide head on, or he'd fall through. For a second he's sure he can smell Brendan, but then he realises it must be him. The smell of the aftershave lingers. It feels oddly comforting.

"Brendan, it's me." And then, as though Brendan's forgotten he's at his house and what his voice sounds like, he adds, "It's Ste."

He's being too nice.

"Come out, okay?"

Still too nice.

"I'm not leaving. You promised." He doubts Brendan can hear a single word he's saying. He's having to be quiet so that Cheryl doesn't hear anything, and he's competing with some bloke who's now singing about guns and prison and fire.

But he feels better for saying it. This way he knows he's not stood back and done nothing.

"If you think you can just lock yourself in there and I'll go away... We're going to the McQueens, alright? So come on."

He doesn't expect Brendan to want to come with him, but he at least expects him to try. They had a deal.

He knocks, incessant. His knuckles are beginning to redden. If Cheryl wasn't downstairs then he'd pull out all the stops, all the threats: the fact that he could pick up the phone and tell Warren everything.

As it is, he has to rein himself in.

"One more chance."

He's not spending another night imagining Brendan and Carmel on holiday together. He's not going to sleep - or _trying_ to go to sleep - with his head being full of what might happen, what he might not be able to stop.

No more chances. No more being nice.

He barges in, fired up, ready to fight this.

He doesn't understand what he's seeing.

Brendan's bent over the toilet, and he's throwing up. And it's exactly that - _what_ he's throwing up - that knocks the breath out of Ste.

Black. His vomit is pure black.

He must have been too weak to stop long enough to lock the door. He's sinking to his knees and he's got his hand in the air, wordlessly demanding for Ste to go. Any other day Brendan would grab him and push him from the room, but he can't now. He can't seem to do much of anything but retch.

That's what the music had been about. It had been a disguise; a sure-fire way to keep Cheryl from hearing this.

The noise keeps coming. The inside of the toilet is filled with black.

Ste almost calls Cheryl. Brendan couldn't stop him, not in this state, and he needs help. They both do, because Ste feels completely out of his depth. Contact lenses and cover up mousse he can handle - that's easy. But this? He doesn't even know what this is.

Why hadn't he asked for Elizabeth's number? She would be the one to call, the one to know. He curses himself for being so stupid, so reckless, but then he hadn't known. He hadn't known that this would happen, and he hadn't known that he would care.

Brendan looks at him, and it's fleeting before the sickness takes hold of him again and he's forced to look away, but it's enough. It's enough for Ste to know what he's asking - begging - him. _Don't tell Cheryl._

"I don't know what to do," he says, and he can hear how helpless he sounds.

"Leave." Brendan's gasping, and then his head's down and he's being sick again. It feels impossible that it can keep going, that he's got anything left in him, but just when Ste thinks there's a break, an end to it, it all starts again.

Would it be enough to kill him? Brendan looks like he'd rather die than send for Cheryl. If Ste left him here, closed the door behind him, would it be enough? Is this the end?

He wouldn't even have to touch Brendan. There would be no violence, no blood, no struggle. Ste could just go, and he could claim the glory for it. He's closer to the door than he is to Brendan. Closer to freedom.

He closes the door. Locks it.

"I'm not leaving you."


	26. Chapter 26

He rushes over to him, and there's a moment's hesitation but then it's gone. He's got his hand on his back, and he's steering Brendan towards the door of the bathroom. They make it to his bedroom, to his bed. There's a feeble protest, but it only makes Ste more convinced that Brendan needs to lie down; there's nothing feeble about him, never has been, and the way he's acting is enough to make Ste know that he's not himself.

He's heavy and clumsy on his feet. Ste has to guide him, uses all his strength and can feel the muscles in his arms straining, his legs beginning to buckle under the weight. He's going to drop him if he's not careful. He stops, takes a steadying breath and uses the time to recalibrate. There's no stalling when he moves again; he knows Brendan is safe in his arms. He can feel Brendan's head drooping against his shoulder.

"You're okay," Ste says, and somehow it comes out like a question, like a prayer. "You'll be okay."

Sweat is covering Brendan's forehead, droplets of it trickling down the sides of his face. He looks in shock, and embarrassed to be seen like this. He makes an attempt to sit up when they reach the bed but Ste puts a hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him down against the pillow.

"You're in no fit state."

Ste switches off the record player, silencing the man who's now singing: _Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring._

He looks around for some water, finds a glass beside the bed. He doesn't know how old it is, but it'll have to do. He can't risk going downstairs and leaving Brendan alone. He doesn't know exactly what this is yet, doesn't know if this is something that's happened before or if it's an emergency.

He brings the glass of water up to Brendan's mouth. There's a panicked moment when Ste wonders if he'll have to help him drink it, but Brendan brings a hand up, takes the glass. He drinks rapidly, draining it. He's gasping when he finishes.

"Better?" Ste asks.

Brendan nods, but he doesn't look it.

"Is it Neurotryptiline? Do you need it?" He doesn't even know if he's saying the word right. All this time of working in the Human Volenteer Force and being around rotters, and he doesn't even know the terminology. "Is it like... withdrawals?"

The thought terrifies him. He's never seen it happen before, never seen the exact moment when a rotter turns rabid. What if that's what's happening to Brendan? What if he changes here, now, and Ste doesn't have a hope in hell of escaping?

Brendan's strong at the best of times, but Brendan as a rabid -

He needs to leave now.

Brendan must read the fear in his eyes.

"I took it this morning."

"Are you sure? Maybe you made a mistake -"

"It's the food, Steven."

"I don't understand."

"The food. I can't eat."

He's aware that he's staring at Brendan like he's lost his mind, but he can't stop.

"Yes you can. Of course you can. I've seen you eat loads of times."

"My body can't take it." He's not looking at him. "It rejects it."

"Rejects..." Ste shakes his head. This isn't making any sense. "What are you on about?"

"None of us can eat. We're not supposed to eat. This is what happens when we do." He's calm when he says it, patient even, but Ste can see he's hating it. That he'd run from the room if he could.

"But you just had all that at dinner..."

The Irish stew. The pudding. The whiskey. He saw it all.

"And this is what happens," Brendan says. His hands are shaking; he makes an attempt to straighten out his fingers and try to hold them still, but it only draws attention to it. "I just didn't realise it would be like this. This bad."

"I don't get it. So you can't eat, and you throw up every time you do? That... that black stuff?"

Brendan nods.

"And you thought you'd just sneak away to the loos and do it quietly, and I'd never know?" He's shaking hard enough to match Brendan.

"You still wouldn't know if you hadn't followed me up here." There's a note of irritation in his voice, and it only riles Ste further.

Brendan's annoyed because of _him_?

"Why didn't you tell me?" He sits gingerly down on the bed, gets up again. It had felt normal, sitting there. Too normal.

"All this time, and you've..."

 _You've lied._ It hurts more than it should. All those days at work where they've all sat down for lunch together, and Brendan pretended - pretended to be eating, pretended that it was something he could do. He never said it back then, not once. Is he that good a liar, or is it him? Is it Ste, desperate enough to believe it?

"It wasn't just you. I didn't tell anyone," Brendan says, and Ste realises that he's being lumbered with _anyone_ , with all the rest of them. He wants to ask, shouldn't there be a difference? Shouldn't there be something separating him from everyone else? He understands Brendan not telling Tony. He even understands him not telling Cheryl, but _him?_

He doesn't know why he's surprised. He doesn't know why he's disappointed, or why the thought of the secret makes his feel like this. He's the one with the secret, with the lie. The biggest lie.

He's distracted from his thoughts by a sudden movement from Brendan; he leans forward, clutches at his stomach. His face screws up in pain, and Ste's taken a step closer to him before he can stop himself, before he can remind himself that less than a second ago he had wanted to hate the rotter for keeping this from him.

"Are you okay?"

A stupid question, but he needs it; he needs Brendan to be okay.

"I'm fine," Brendan says, with a little too much conviction. He's trying to sit up properly again, takes his hand off his stomach, but Ste can see it's an effort. He's doing it for show and show alone, not because the pain's gone.

"No you're not."

Ste sits on the bed again - now isn't the time to worry about what he should and should not be doing - and he looks at Brendan, waiting, poised to jump into action if things get worse. What action this will be he doesn't know; he isn't trained for this, doesn't know what procedures to take, but he'll do _something_. He won't just stand back and let this happen.

There are still beads of sweat on Brendan's forehead. They're making the cover up mousse turn patchy, washing away the orange hue of it and revealing the transparency of the skin underneath.

"Do you have a cloth?"

"A cloth?"

"Yeah, some kind of... I don't know, flannel or something. Damp."

Brendan shakes his head, and Ste wonders if it's because he doesn't trust himself to speak; if it's because he's worried he'll throw up again if he does.

This is going to have to be down to him, what happens next. He's not dealing with the Brendan that he met in the cage, or the Brendan who cornered him in the alleyway, or the Brendan who's had him pressed up against a wall, hands behind his back. This Brendan can do little more than sit and shake and close his eyes.

"Right."

Ste stands up again, looks around the room to see if there's anything he can use. There must have been other times when Brendan's done this, when he's had to recover afterwards, but there's nothing he can find. He hadn't expected that he would be that lucky, that he could do it all without having to leave the room and risk attracting attention from Cheryl.

"I'm going to go the bathroom. Is that alright?" He's still a guest in someone's house, and he doesn't want to overstep the mark. He'll worry about how ridiculous he is for caring about that later.

"You don't need my permission to take a piss, Steven."

"I'm not going for _me_ , you idiot. I'm going for you. You look like you're burning up."

There's that mutter of _I'm fine_ again. Ste's had enough of it. With a sigh he takes Brendan's hand, presses it to his forehead.

"That feel fine to you?"

He can feel the heat coming off him just from the contact they have, just from where he's touching Brendan's hand.

Brendan looks at him, doesn't pull his hand away. He wets his lips; there's a speck of saliva that remains on the middle of them that Ste briefly considers brushing away with his thumb.

He takes his hand away.

"I'll be right back, okay?"

He's at the door when Brendan says his name, calling him back. It's questioning, and there's a shake to his words, an uncertainty there. Ste doesn't need to know what he's asking; he knows already.

He turns around to face him, makes sure he's looking at him when he speaks.

"I'm coming back. I promise you." And then, because Brendan looks like he still thinks he'll run, that he's using this all as an excuse to escape, he says it again. "I promise you. Where else am I gonna go?"

He can see Brendan opening his mouth, about to cut in, perhaps suggest exactly where else he could go, but Ste doesn't let him.

"I'll see you in a second."

He closes the door softly, creeping across the landing. He wants to be quick about this, the thought of Brendan hunched over on the bed enough to drive him forward, but he's still aware of Cheryl downstairs. He knows Brendan would try to pretend that nothing was wrong if she came up, but that's what Ste dreads: the forced smile, the words to comfort her, the masking of what he's feeling.

Brendan's told this lie for too long. Ste doesn't want it to continue, doesn't want to have anything to do with it anymore.

He makes his way to the bathroom and immediately assesses his surroundings, angry at himself that when he'd been snooping earlier he hadn't noticed everything in minute detail. He grabs whatever he can use - a cloth that's hung up to dry, a small bowl in the corner near the sink. When he runs the tap to soak the cloth it sounds unbearably loud, and he's relieved when he can turn it off again. He wrings the cloth, gets it so it's damp but not dripping, and he pads back towards Brendan's bedroom.

He wonders if he was gone for longer than he thought, because things seem to be worse. Brendan's eyes are unfocused, and when he looks at Ste he doesn't seem to be seeing him. He blinks rapidly, and when he swallows it looks painful.

"Here." Ste's at his side in moments, and he debates what should come first: the bowl or the cloth. "Do you still feel sick?"

Brendan nods.

"Put this under you, go on." Ste passes him the bowl and makes sure that Brendan positions it against his chest, close enough to his mouth.

He's done this for Leah and Lucas before when they've been ill. He'd known what to do then, exactly what to do, not like now; now, he should feel in control, but he's floundering. He's never seen Brendan like this before. When he'd been trapped in the cage he'd still been powerful. He'd still had his strength and his way of fighting back against what was keeping him there. He had a kind of determination that Ste couldn't help but admire when he looked back at it; Brendan wasn't going to be beaten, not by anyone.

Now he doesn't look so sure, so strong.

They sit in silence, and Ste waits for a change. All those signs that he's waiting for, those human signs of wellness, they're not going to come - Brendan's skin isn't suddenly going to get its colour back, but still he waits, and hopes, and his own patience is a shock. It must be fifteen, twenty minutes that they sit there, not saying anything, only waiting to see if the sickness passes. Ste never knew he could be that quiet, that unmindful of the time passing and that content to let it pass.

Slowly Brendan takes the bowl away from his body. He's about to bend down and put it on the floor, but Ste takes it for him.

"I've got it."

He still can't leave. Brendan still doesn't look like Brendan, and it's scaring him.

"Do you mind if I..." He extends his hand, doesn't move it to Brendan's forehead before he gets permission. For a moment he thinks he won't get it, and already he feels the rejection of it sting him. But, almost imperceptibly, Brendan nods.

He remembers a time when he'd believed that Brendan's skin would be cold like the others. It's what he'd been told and it ought to have been true; every ounce of common sense told him that someone who wasn't alive shouldn't be warm, but Brendan was. Brendan defied that previously held belief, and still Ste couldn't work out why. There had been moments when he'd brushed up against Sarah accidentally when he'd gone to visit Mike with the kids, or when they'd had an uncomfortable hug goodbye, and he'd struggled not to shiver at the feel of her skin. Cold to the bone, it felt like.

Brendan should have been the same.

He doesn't seem as feverish as he'd been before. He appears startled by the feel of Ste's hand on him, even though he knew it was coming, even though he'd agreed to it. He flinches, and Ste almost pulls away, but he doesn't. Brendan's sweat feels tacky against his skin, but his forehead is smooth, soft. He hadn't expected it to feel like this; not a rotter. He wonders if it's the cover up mousse, if its abilities extend to transforming more than just the look of the skin, but the feel of it too.

He almost asks, but if he did then Brendan would know that it's something he's thinking about.

"You're still warm." He finds that he's whispering.

"I'll live." Brendan laughs at his own joke, and Ste finds that he's doing the same.

"That was terrible."

"Come on, give me some credit. I'm off my game here."

"You're never on your game."

"Made you laugh, didn't it?" Brendan says.

Ste can't deny it.

He realises that he's still holding his hand to Brendan's skin. He takes it off, half expects to see an imprint on his forehead, some sign that he was there, but there's nothing.

The cloth's almost dried out in the time they've spent sitting.

"Hang on."

He's sure he'll be caught this time, but the trip to the bathroom is quick. This time he doesn't wring the cloth out as thoroughly as before, and drops of water land on the carpet as he walks. He looks down at them, briefly thinks of trying to dry the carpet to conceal the evidence. What stops him is that thinking of it as evidence at all is a distortion. He doesn't know why he feels panicked at the thought of Cheryl finding out what he's doing.

He shows the cloth to Brendan when he's back inside the bedroom.

"This might help."

"I'm -"

"Don't tell me you're fine. I won't believe you."

"What if it's true?"

"Doesn't matter."

He's about to bring the cloth to Brendan's forehead when he stops, remembering that he hadn't asked. It's one thing to check his temperature, but it's another to do this.

He almost misses the way that Brendan's eyes flutter shut, their lids heavy when he opens them again. Almost, but not quite.

"Fine, are you?"

"Steven -"

"That's what you get for throwing up all of your insides. Lie back."

"What?" Brendan's eyes aren't heavy now; they're wide open and shocked, focused on him.

"Lie back. You'll feel better if you're not all huddled and tense, won't you?" He doesn't know this for sure, but he's gone into practical mode: he's considering all his options, considering how to make things okay, and he isn't thinking about the consequences. He isn't thinking about how he's in Brendan's bedroom, sat on Brendan's bed, asking him to lie back. Asking him if he can look after him.

He'd prefer to cling on to his sanity, and that doesn't include thinking about this.

He isn't lying back. He isn't moving. He's looking at him, and Ste tries to guess what he's thinking - that he's disgusted, that he's angry, that he's biding his time until he can think of a way to get rid of him. That he'd rather Carmel was here, being the one to do this for him. Anyone but him.

There's a movement, a shuffle backwards, a lowering of his back against the bed. Ste sighs, can't help it, and he doesn't know if it's relief at Brendan not battering him for his suggestion, or just the relief of being able to stay.

Brendan isn't closing his eyes. It's unnerving knowing that he's watching him, but Ste gathers the courage he'll need to do this. He must find it from somewhere, because he leans forward, leans over him, and he presses the cloth against his forehead. The water trickles down the side of Brendan's face, lands on the pillow.

"Sorry."

"Doesn't matter."

There's still that watchfulness. Ste doesn't know if it stems from a place of mistrust, but it occurs to him that it could be. That Brendan's waiting for him to turn against him, for this to be a trick.

It would make sense. It would make more sense than this.

"You can't keep doing this, you know." He's quiet, so quiet that Brendan's breaths sound like the loudest thing in the room.

"What?"

"Pretending."

"Why not? Got me this far, didn't it?"

"It got you _here_. You think that's good? You think that what we're doing now, that it's..."

Being close like this. Ste touching him like this. This secret of Brendan's binding them, making Ste stay. Brendan can't think that's normal.

"I mean it, Brendan. I can't just watch while you eat at work, and then know that you're going to be ill afterwards."

"Then don't watch."

"How can I do that? I know now."

That's the difference: he knows, and he can't go back to before.

"Have you ever seen me like this before? Has it ever got in the way of me working?"

Ste's about to point out that Brendan rarely works, but that's an entirely different conversation.

"No," he admits reluctantly.

"Have I ever had a day off because of this?"

"No, but -"

"Then nothing has to change."

Everything has to change.

"You still get sick, don't you? Even if you don't get like this, you still get sick." He presses it, won't let it drop. It's forming in his mind now, all the times when Brendan would excuse himself to go to the bathroom after lunch. All of them would do it, every single rotter in the two groups, but Ste hadn't thought anything of it. Now everything is shifting, becoming clearer. He was stupid not to see it, not to wonder about it. It didn't matter that they'd all appeared fine when they'd returned; he should have known. Of course they wouldn't have been able to eat properly. All those years when he'd focused on the differences between them, on how he was alive and they were dead, and yet he'd never truly considered what being dead meant.

He hadn't wanted to know, but he wants to know now.

"Brendan?" He prompts, because he's still not answering, and they have to do this. He can't ignore it any more.

"Yes." A single word, ripped from him.

"So all of you just go into the toilets, and you all..."

A unity. A unity of sickness. And not one word about it afterwards.

"Why would they do that? Why lie? I would have understood."

Even as he says it Brendan's doubting him, shaking his head and causing the cloth on his skin to shift.

"I would."

Would he? He doesn't know who he's trying to convince, Brendan or himself. There must have been a reason why none of the rotters had told him or Tony. Trust, that's what it came down to. And none of them had trusted him.

"Even if they hate me, why wouldn't they want to make things easier for themselves?"

"Sometimes a lie is easier."

"But being in pain - physical pain?"

"That's nothing."

"Nothing?" Ste echoes back, trying to understand. Failing.

"It heals, Steven. It all heals, all of this. You know what doesn't heal? Humiliation. That stays with you. Doesn't matter how long it's been. It's always there. It's in here." He jabs at his head with his hand, hard enough to hurt.

"Stop it," Ste says. He takes away Brendan's hand, has to lean over his body to do it. It's not just his forehead that feels warm; the rest of him does as well. He can smell him, smell his aftershave, and he breathes him in. He's full of him, his touch, his scent, the sound of him an odd comfort even when he's trying to wound with his words.

Ste pulls away sharply, puts some distance between them. He still allows his hand to linger around the cloth, for the cool water to rest against Brendan's skin.

 _I didn't mean to humiliate them._

"I didn't know they all felt like that."

"They don't. Not all of them."

Ste looks at him curiously.

"Some of them are covering for the others. You ever seen the way Jacqui McQueen eats?"

It's important that Ste remembers. Months he's spent with her, and if he can't even recall a thing like that then what does that say about him? He knows what Amy would think: that it shows a complete lack of care on his part, a complete lack of acknowledgement of Jacqui as someone - not something - that matters.

It feels like an achievement when he can visualise it, when he can picture her face and see her sitting with them all.

"She hardly eats anything." He's excited when he says it, triumphant, but he realises that this means nothing. That this makes his ignorance even worse, because there had been clues, hints, but he hadn't wanted to look closer. He falters. "I mean..." He doesn't know what he means. "I just thought... I thought she was on some stupid diet or something, or, I don't know... just..." He hadn't cared. That's the clear cut truth of it, when he stops using excuses.

He bites back his sudden instinct to apologise.

"She stirs her food around. Moves it with her fork. Moves it back again. Does it so many times that you almost become convinced she's eaten something. It's just for show."

"She's doing it so no one notices that the rest of you aren't having anything?"

"Don't think she gives a damn about me, but Rhys? Yeah. I reckon she does it for him."

"I can't believe this."

"You think I'm lying?" Brendan sits up on his elbows, and he looks like he's about to do more before Ste interrupts him.

"I don't mean I don't believe you." It's just a lot to take in, is all. He doesn't know if he should be angry at them all for all the time they've spent deceiving him, but he finds that he doesn't feel it.

He watches as Brendan settles again, leaning back on the bed. Ste wants to open a window, let Brendan feel the breeze on his skin, but that means leaving the bed. He stays.

"Better?" He asks, still holding the cloth firmly in place, and Brendan nods. He grows so silent, so still that Ste begins to wonder if he's asleep. "Brendan?"

There's a slow release of breath, and then a grunt.

"All the other stuff you told me... is that all wrong too?"

"Like what?" He can feel Brendan's body tensing, preparing himself for the questioning that's to come, but he doesn't stop him.

"That you can sleep."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know." It's the truth. He doesn't want to believe that Brendan's lied to him about everything, but he hasn't forgotten the reason he came to his house in the first place. He hasn't forgotten what Warren and Danny have accused Brendan of doing.

It's not the answer Brendan was looking for. He looks disappointed. Disappointed in him.

"I can sleep, Steven. We can sleep. All of us."

There's more. More that Ste wants to ask. Jacqui and Rhys had been so certain that Carmel and Brendan could have sex, but still the question seems unfinished somehow, like it's up to _him_ to finish it. Up to him to ask.

He wants to, but he won't.

"But how though? If you can't do one thing, but you can do another -"

"How am I meant to know?" Brendan snaps, and he's close to the edge now, close to looking like he's strongly considering throwing Ste out. "You think I've got a rule book on this stuff? You think I know everything?"

It's a change, a change from the Brendan who pretends that he _does_ know everything, that he's always one step ahead. He looks disarmed, uncertain. Fragile.

"You've been this way for years. I just thought..."

"I don't know why, okay? I don't understand why I can... why some things are..." He screws his eyes shut, and there's an unmistakable look of pain on his face like he's attacking an invisible opponent. Like he's being attacked.

Ste gets closer. He was teetering on the end of the bed before, but now he can feel his leg brushing against Brendan's. He doesn't move away.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

 _I'm sorry._

"You're curious though, aren't you? Trying to find out about the freak."

He spits at the word _freak_ ; Ste sees the fleck of it land on the cover.

"Stop that."

"Why? It's true, isn't it?"

"No it's not. I don't... I don't think that."

He can't meet Brendan's eyes. He can feel droplets of water from the cloth running down his arm, but he doesn't change position.

Ste's scared that Brendan's going to say the word again. _Freak_. He doesn't like how he says it; doesn't like how much Brendan means it. The amount of conviction is terrifying.

"Maybe I should go," he says, because he doesn't know what's going to happen if he stays in this room. But he knows he won't go. They both know, and Brendan doesn't answer him. "Your Cheryl's quiet."

"There's a first for everything."

"Isn't she wondering where we are?"

"She'll call if she needs me."

"What about if you need her though?"

"Steven." He's trying to silence him, but it's not working.

"She'd understand, Brendan. She'd know why you didn't tell her all this time, about you being... you know, sick when you eat."

"And you'd know this from your many years of knowing her."

"I know that she loves you. That's enough, isn't it? You can forgive a lot, when you love someone."

Brendan looks at him through one eye.

"That's beautiful, Steven. Really."

"Shut up."

"No, really. You ever think of going professional?"

"Give over taking the piss. I mean it. You do. You do forgive."

"I didn't just not tell her. I lied to her."

"Is there a difference?" He says, but he knows that there is. Or at least that's what he's tried to tell himself when he's withheld the truth from Amy time and time again.

"She tried to find out about things. When I first... when I came back, she wanted to find out everything she could. About the medication, about everything you lot did to try and keep me quiet. _Docile_. All the booklets, all the fucking meetings. She wanted to go to all of them."

"What happened?"

"I stopped her. I didn't let her go. I told her not to get involved, that I just wanted to forget about it all. That I would handle it."

Ste imagines it all: the arguments, the determination from Cheryl to find out about this new version of her brother, and Brendan doing everything he could to shut her down.

"She won't hate you. If you tell her the truth, she won't turn her back on you."

"How do you know? You meet her for what, five minutes, and you think you know her?"

Ste ignores the slight. He's come to expect this from Brendan, this biting back, this defensiveness.

"She thinks the world of you. Anyone can see that."

Brendan says nothing to that. It seems like he's waiting for Ste to go on, for him to add something else, a retort about how Cheryl's crazy for believing in him at all.

"You gonna tell her?" He says when the retort doesn't come.

"About what?"

" _This_."

He's thought about it. He knows there would be a satisfaction to it, a triumph of being the one with the power for once. It could feel like payback for all the things Brendan's done, for all the times he's scared him, for all the trouble he's caused, for all the lies.

But beyond that initial rush there would come the aftermath. The damage he'd cause. The very real possibility that Brendan would kill him for it.

Brendan's starting to look better. Ste doesn't know why he isn't giving the cloth over to him; why he's still holding it against his forehead.

"Have you told anyone about me?"

He feels the tilt of Brendan's head as he looks up at him.

"About..." This isn't getting any easier. "You know... me not being able to write and read like the others." He feels the sting of humiliation.

"I told you -"

"I know you said that you wouldn't, but I need to hear it again."

"I haven't told anyone. I'm not going to tell anyone."

Ste nods, tries to believe him.

"If you can keep a secret then so can I. Cheryl will never know, not because of me."

"Thank you."

Ste laughs, soft, low.

"What?" Brendan says.

"Did Brendan Brady just say thank you?"

"I do that sometimes. Don't like to make a habit of it."

"You should do it more often, you know. It doesn't sound half bad."

"Watch it," Brendan says, and Ste laughs again.

"I know you're feeling better if you're trying to intimidate me again."

He lifts the cloth up. The imprint of it has made some of the cover up mousse fade away.

Brendan must notice him staring.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He's about to reach out and feel Brendan's forehead, see if he's still burning up. He stops himself, tries to pass off the movement as a sweep of his hair.

"Does cover up mousse come out in the wash?" Ste holds the cloth up, the stain evident.

"Fuck, I'll have to put more on."

"Why?"

He thought it sounded like a sensible question in his head, but now he's said it it seems reckless. The worst thing he could say.

"I just mean..." He can feel Brendan looking at him, and it's making it harder for him to say what needs to be said. And what he needs to say - what he should say - is that Brendan will have to put more cover up mousse on again. That he'll have to do anything he can to make him look less of a monster.

But it doesn't come out like that.

"You're just here, aren't you. It's not like you're outside where people can see you."

"You can see me."

"Yeah, but..."

"But what, Steven?"

"You don't need to worry about me."

"Don't I?"

"No," Ste says, with a finality that surprises them both.

The bed's smaller than he'd thought; he suddenly feels like there's no space to move, no space to breathe.

He stands up.

"You going?" Brendan says.

He doesn't know what he's doing.

"I'm just going to…" He mutters something about getting a drink, says he'll be back in a minute, and does Brendan want anything? And no, no he doesn't, of course he doesn't. Ste's still learning. Still letting this all sink in.

Ste backs out of the room, feels like an idiot for suggesting it, but Brendan's not looking at him like that. He's not looking like he thinks he's an idiot.

"Steven?"

Ste thinks he's going to ask him again, ask him if he really will come back.

"What?"

"Why do you smell like me?" He says it sleepily, and Ste wonders if there's a chance that he'll forget his own question. If he'll forget why he asked.

Ste wets his lips, feels the hammering of his heart.

"I'm just going to..." he repeats, and then he's outside the room, light-headed, flushed.

He holds onto the banister when he walks down the stairs. He wasn't lying about that drink; he desperately needs one, to steady him if nothing else.

Cheryl's in the kitchen, her back to him. She turns at the sound of him, smiles. Ste's expecting a rebuke - _I was about to call out a search party_ \- but she's calm, normal.

"Sorry, I didn't think we'd be so long."

"Don't worry, you boys need some private time." She winks.

 _Winks_.

He feels like he's missed a step.

"You're not mad?"

"Why would I be mad?" She laughs, and Ste has the distinct impression that she thinks he's being daft.

He's about to pursue it, but he doesn't know what _it_ is.

"Is it alright if I get some water?"

"Course love. You don't want something stronger, no? There's still some of Bren's whiskey in the cupboard, or we've got the beer that you had earlier."

"No, ta."

She pours him a glass of a water, and he downs it in one.

"Someone's thirsty."

He nods, embarrassed. He needs to be careful here; he might not be the one to tell Cheryl about what's going on, but that doesn't mean he won't indirectly let something slip by the way he's acting.

"Does Brendan want anything?"

"No, I think he's alright."

"You should see him, Ste. Eats like a horse, that one. I've never seen anything like it. He was always the same, even when he was younger. He'll be coming down the stairs in half an hour asking me to do him a bacon buttie."

Ste almost laughs before he remembers. Maybe Cheryl's not entirely wrong though; maybe that was the old Brendan. The human Brendan.

He tries to steer the conversation into safe territory again.

"Thank you for this, Cheryl. For letting me stay, and for the dinner and everything."

"Don't be silly. It's you I should be thanking."

"For what?"

"For being there for my brother."

She's looking at him with an intensity that's making him uncomfortable. He knows that she means it. Every word, she means. And it's important to her, this thank you. He can see how much she wants him to hear it, to understand it.

"It's nothing."

Because that's what it is: nothing. He hasn't done anything for Brendan. All he's done is take: take his freedom, being part of a group that forces him to work for next to nothing. Take his privacy, following him and running back to Warren and Danny with information.

Take his life, one day.

"You don't realise, do you?" Cheryl says.

"What?" He's beginning to think it was a bad idea to try and change the subject. Cheryl talking about her brother's appetite suddenly seems a lot easier.

"The impact you've had on him."

 _Impact_. He feels half terrified, half hopeful at the idea that he could have had any effect on Brendan.

"I don't think..."

"I mean it, Ste. I was so worried about him coming here, about what would happen. I wanted to see him more than anything, but you know how it is, with people not being... well, accepting."

Yes. He knows how it is.

"It wasn't just the big things. You know, thinking that he could be... hurt, or something else..." She closes her eyes for a second, is clearly thinking of the something else. "It was the little things. Thinking that he'd be lonely, that he wouldn't have any friends."

Ste isn't going to be the one to tell her that she's not entirely wrong.

"But now I know he's found you."

She's smiling at him, and there's a kind of expectation there that he doesn't understand. He nods, tries to smile back.

"Although finding out anything about you from him is like getting blood from a stone."

She's light hearted again now, the gravity behind her words gone. Ste knows he should feel relieved that Brendan hasn't told his sister about him - and a part of him does - but he wonders if there's something else behind it.

He wonders if Brendan's ashamed of him.

But the worry doesn't take hold, because she asks him something that makes him feel like the room's spinning and he isn't anchored to the ground any more.

"Where do you work, love?"

"What?" His voice sounds feeble. It sounds like _save me._

"Do you work locally?"

He can't think of a single thing to say that won't entangle him further. He thought he'd become an expert at thinking on his feet and forming an easy lie, but he's out of his depth. He hadn't expected this, and yet he feels foolish now for not knowing that it was coming. He'd focused on the fabrication of where he and Brendan had met, but he'd never stopped to think of the other details, of what job he was meant to be doing.

He could chance it and tell her the truth. He'd gone to get the contact lenses and cover up mousse with Brendan in his uniform that day, and Elizabeth had done his work for him. She'd understood, hadn't questioned him or judged him.

But she was a professional. She was used to seeing that sort of thing every day. Cheryl isn't.

He can't tell her. He knows there's every chance that she'll find out another way, that she'll see him in the village in his uniform or gossip will spread, but he's willing to take the risk.

"I work in a club in town." It's the first thing that comes to him, and he knows it's because of Brendan; because of what he'd told him about managing a place back in Ireland and Liverpool.

It only opens up the line of questioning: did he know that Brendan used to manage a club, and how funny it is that they both have that in common, and maybe one day if Brendan owns a place again then he can hire Ste. _Mixing business with pleasure_ is what she says, and she giggles.

They both don't acknowledge the fact that a rotter running their own club is impossible in a place like this. He's too focused on the relief of Cheryl not asking for the name of his fictitious club.

He understands it. He understands what it's like to want something so much that reality is dismissed and ignored in order to create a new one. He'd seen it with Amy; seen how she'd wanted so badly for him to be the person she needed that she'd denied the person he'd really been. It had been a beautiful dream back then, this person she'd formed in her mind who looked like him, and it must be a beautiful dream for Cheryl now, this life that her brother could have. The things he could achieve.

He doesn't want to destroy that dream, so he listens and he smiles and he pictures it for a moment, and it almost becomes something tangible: a world in which Brendan could be in charge of a club again, and no one could stop him.

::::::

He makes sure the bedroom door is closed before he starts to talk.

"Right, I now work in a club. Cheryl started asking about my job, so if she says anything to you then -"

He stops. Stops talking, stops moving.

Brendan's chest is rising and falling slowly, peacefully, and there's silence.

Ste creeps towards the bed.

"Brendan?" He whispers it, but there's no response. He's definitely asleep, unless he's playing a trick on him. He waits for the shock of it, for Brendan to sit up abruptly and make him jump, but it doesn't come.

He's sprawled out, but there's a small area of space where Ste perches, careful not to make any sudden movements and wake him.

He looks different when he's asleep. Happier. All the anger and mistrust and tension is gone from his face. His forehead is smooth, not creased like it so often is from frowning and the lingering worry which never quite seems to leave him in waking hours. His moustache looks soft, and there's a light scattering of stubble where a beard would be if it grew. It must have been a few days since he last shaved. Ste wonders if he does it fresh from the shower like he does, when he's still naked and beginning to shiver from the heat of the water leaving him.

But Brendan always feels warm.

He's wearing a clinging grey T-shirt, its material thin. It's low cut, low enough that the hair on his chest is visible. Ste had never realised how long his legs are, but now he's noticing; now he's seeing how they seem to take up all of the bed, and there's a narrow strip where his stomach is visible above the waistband of his jeans. Is that the hair of his stomach he can see, or is it connected to what's lower down, to what Ste can't see?

He's lying at an angle. He doesn't look uncomfortable, but still Ste draws the cover up over him, holding his breath when he thinks for a moment that he's woken him. Brendan shifts a little, sniffs, but continues to sleep. Ste leans over him, watches him. It would be easy to lie beside him, to rest his head and sleep. He thinks he would; he thinks he might get the first proper sleep he's had in weeks without the need for a drink the night before. He knows the rotter in the bed isn't safe, but he feels safe. Ste feels safe here, now.

He runs.

He takes the stairs two at a time, mercifully doesn't stumble. He grabs his jacket from the back of the sofa, can hear Cheryl in the kitchen. He doesn't manage to make it outside fast enough.

"Are you going?"

He's got one hand on the door. It's already half open.

"Yeah, sorry." He keeps his face turned away from her; he feels a wreck, and he'd put money on him looking like one too. "I'll see you soon, okay? Thanks."

He puts distance between them, makes sure that he's down the steps that lead to the Brady's flat before he's got his hands on his knees and he's taking in lungfuls of air, but still it's not enough; still he's panting, and he's sure that people are staring but he hasn't got any room inside his head for them.

 _What was that?_

He runs all the way home and tries to pretend that he hadn't just thought about kissing Brendan Brady.


	27. Chapter 27

He wakes with a jolt.

His pillow is stained with sweat, his breathing ragged. He looks around at his surroundings; takes in the familiar sight of his bed, the clock on his bedside table, the drawers full of his clothes. Brendan's vest, tucked away into them.

 _Brendan_.

He shuts his eyes, balls his hands into fists.

The dream comes back to him, slowly at first and then all at once, assaulting his senses. He can still see what he saw in the dream. He can still taste what he tasted. He still wants what he wanted.

It had started the same: the entrapment. The inability to run fast enough. The sense that this was it, that his luck and his chances had taken him to this moment, but that there wouldn't be anything beyond this point. The desperation that hit him with its urgency, screaming at him to cling onto his life, to keep going.

There had been a change in the air, a spreading of warmth which he felt keenly on his previously icy fingertips. He had shaken them out, marvelling at the way in which the skin looked now; the former stark whiteness had been replaced with tinges of pink. He remembers thinking that he looked healthy, and how strange that seemed when he still felt so scared.

He'd turned. He'd known he'd be behind him before he'd seen him, and there was a relief that came along with it, with seeing Brendan's face. He didn't speak; neither of them did, but there was a light in Brendan's eyes that seemed to be only for him. It was all the hello he needed.

They'd both been dressed in black. Ste had been about to make a joke, ask whose funeral it was, but he'd stopped himself: that was all too relevant and close to the truth in this town, and he didn't want to tempt fate.

"What are you doing here?"

He'd known really.

Brendan hadn't answered him. He deserved that. He deserved for such a pointless question to be ignored.

Ste moved closer. He noticed as he did so that he became warmer still, like he was stepping into a pool of heat. It was intoxicating. Addictive. He could get used to this.

He moved his hand to stroke a strand of hair out of his eyes. It was then that he noticed the gun he was holding.

He stared down at it, frowned. The feel of it didn't feel strange; he'd been holding one almost every day for years now, but it was having it here, now. _That_ was strange.

He looked at Brendan, expecting to see fear in his eyes. He'd looked intrigued, a spectator in his own life. Like he was standing back, watching Ste point a gun at someone else.

And then he'd spread his arms. Moved forward.

 _No._

Ste had shouted it, shrill and gasping and his body moving violently, out of his control. He tried to drop the gun but it remained in his hand as if glued to it, and no amount of shaking or force would extricate him from it.

 _No, Brendan._

Brendan was getting closer and he was still offering himself up like a gift, like a sacrifice. There was no hesitation. There was nothing but willingness.

 _Stop._

He was inches away from the gun now. He stopped when he was close enough. Stopped and waited.

"Go on."

Ste had never heard his voice this smooth, this soft.

"I can't." He shook his head wildly.

"You have to."

He knew he was right, but that didn't matter any more. It didn't matter about what was right or wrong, or what he had to do. He didn't _want_ to do it, and that's all that seemed important. He couldn't believe that he hadn't understood that before.

Brendan reached out. Ste flinched; he knew what was coming, and he knew that it was the last thing he wanted most in the world.

Brendan's hand secured around the gun. He steered it against his chest, moved it over his heart.

"Go on," he said again, and he was determined now. Determined to make Ste do what he wanted. Some of the gentleness left him, and Ste saw a flash of something. He didn't care. He didn't care about the something. He was still just Brendan.

"How can you ask me to -" He couldn't say it. "Don't ever ask me to do that."

Brendan didn't take his hand away from the gun. Ste wanted to drag it away from his body, but he knew he'd be overpowered. He didn't stand a chance against Brendan. He never had done.

"There is one other thing you can do," Brendan said conversationally, as though they weren't discussing his possible death. He had a way of detaching himself that Ste envied.

"I know."

He knew what would break the spell. He knew what would save him.

Brendan regarded him curiously.

"Why don't you then?"

"I'm not..."

 _I'm not allowed._ He wanted to say it, but he knew how ridiculous it sounded. It was true though: if he did what Brendan was suggesting then everything could be ruined. Everything _would_ be ruined: he couldn't see any alternative. And yet -

And yet there was the smallest possibility that it would all be okay.

"Try it," Brendan said.

Ste gave a short laugh. Like it was that simple. Like it was just something that he could pick up and put down again. Something that wouldn't change the course of his entire future.

"I mean it."

How was it possible that he was even closer now? The gun was digging into his chest, reminding Ste that they weren't out of the danger zone. Not even close.

"Don't."

He was saying stop, but he wasn't sure that he felt it. He wasn't sure that the way he was looking at Brendan was saying anything but yes.

"What are you so scared of, Steven?"

Brendan was looking at him, looking at his eyes and his quivering lips, and Ste knew that if his hands were free then he'd be touching him. He hated that gun more than he'd ever hated anything.

He didn't know. He sensed that he had been scared of something, and there were a thousand reasons why he should be scared now, but something else was overtaking it, crowding it out.

Brendan was daring him to do it. If he did then everything might get even more confusing, more terrifying.

If he didn't then he might die.

He leaned forward. The gun ought to be pressing even further against Brendan's body, but Ste couldn't feel its weight. He didn't look down to see if it was still there; with every movement closer to Brendan he was sure that it was disappearing.

His lips were soft, his moustache rough. The contrast was peculiar, and Ste didn't know what to make of it. He leant back a little, wet his lips, wondered if this was all a terrible mistake. There seemed to be only one way to find out. He kissed him again, brief, testing, and there was nothing between them, no gun, because Brendan was pulling him against him, his hands everywhere, and then there was nothing brief, nothing testing. Ste didn't pull back again.

He kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

When he wakes up he rolls against his pillow, uses it to muffle his cries, his screams.

It's not the dream. It's not _what_ he'd dreamed that makes him cry, makes him scream. It's waking up.

::::::

He's being shaken, a hand on him.

He buries himself deeper under the covers, wonders whether ignoring it will make it go away. It doesn't.

The bed dips. Someone's sitting down, not leaving him alone. Not letting him rest. Not letting him forget that he's here, tethered to the ground, alive and conscious and remembering everything that's happened. Everything that happened yesterday.

"Are you ill?"

 _Yes._ It's the truth: he feels ill. He feels like he's losing his mind.

"Ste?"

He's shaken again, and then when he doesn't reply, doesn't react he can feel the warmth leaving him, the cover being lifted and the light filtering through.

"Leave it, Amy." He tries to get the cover back, but she's holding it tightly and he'd have to use force to snatch it back. It's that word that scares him, and the idea behind it. _Force._

He leaves it. He takes in a breath. His body's relieved to not be stifled by the heat any more, but he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve to have that kind of comfort.

He opens his eyes, looks around the room. Everything looks the same. Everything's as he left it, but it feels impossible that it could be like that; that nothing's changed when everything else has. When he has.

Amy hasn't changed; not the concern on her face, not the lines of worry that he's helped to create.

Except they're worse now. Deeper. And she's not leaving him. He can't do what he usually does, can't make a swift exit from the flat as an avoidance tactic. He can't seem to do much of anything except lie there, his arms pinned to his sides now like he's being held down against his will. He's been rendered useless, incapable.

"You're going to be late for work if you don't get up now," Amy says, and she's staring at the clock by his bedside as if trying to make him look at it too. Trying to make him pull himself together and spring into action.

He doesn't look.

"I'm not going in."

He hadn't made his mind up until now, but he knows there's no other possibility. He doesn't look at Amy to see her reaction; he can already guess what it will be.

"Has something happened?"

She's asking like she already knows the answer.

"Don't feel well, do I."

He's attempting to decide what mystery illness he's meant to have. He's expecting her to ask, is preparing his answer.

"Where were you yesterday?"

He isn't prepared for that.

"I told you, I was at a mate's house."

"Which mate?"

This is where it gets difficult. Amy knows him too well. Knows that he could list on one hand the number of mates he has.

"Tony," he says, and he remembers the lie he was going to tell when he'd been planning on bringing back Cheryl's dessert for her. He'd left it on the counter in the kitchen; he hadn't stopped long enough to bring it home.

"Steven."

She only ever calls him that when she's angry with him, or when something serious is being said. He braces himself, and he shivers. Only one person has called him Steven lately.

"What?" It's snappish, impatient.

"Was it really Tony?"

"Who else would it be?" He throws the bed covers off him, stands up. It does this to him, anger; it rejuvenates him.

"It's just, you seemed..."

"Seemed what?"

He'd done his best to behave normally last night. The kids had been in bed by the time he got home, and he'd opened the door to their bedroom just enough to let the light shine through so he could see their faces. They looked peaceful. He loved it. He envied them. He'd watched some television - the volume turned down low - and chatted a bit with Amy, same as always. He'd had a shower, same as always. He'd gone to bed, same as always. Nothing was different.

Amy looks like she's struggling to explain. He waits, scared of the word she'll settle on.

"Not yourself."

He feels like he's been punched.

"I was just tired, that's all." As he's saying it he can hear it for the lie it is, and he knows she can hear it too. It's the easiest excuse, the most transparent, and he's just ruined his chances of her believing him.

She's standing too now, and she takes his hand. He wants to grab it away, tell her he can't do this; he can't take her understanding. He isn't strong enough to be able to accept her kindness and not think that he'll end up telling her everything.

"Did you..." She's whispering, and he knows what she's going to ask. For once he wants her to say it. It seems easier than what's been going on in his head. Familiar. Safe ground, for the first time. She's circling her thumb over the skin on his hand, calming him. Or trying to. "Did you kill the rabid last night?"

If he said yes then maybe it could explain away his behaviour, why he's very much not himself. But then she'd expect him to be free now, and he's the very opposite of that; he's the most trapped he's ever been.

He shakes his head. He sees the mixture of disappointment and relief that results because of it, like she can't quite decide which one to feel, which one wins.

"Not yet." It holds a promise: _not yet but soon,_ and he knows it gives her hope. He doesn't know what it does to him. "I promise I'll tell you, okay? You won't be the last to know."

She won't be the first though, and she looks like she knows this. She's not at the top of the list, when she always has been with everything else.

"Ste -"

"I'll still look after the kids today, alright? I'll still read them a story, and I'll make them their tea. You don't have to worry about that."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

He won't let her say more. He can't.

"It's just today, Ames. I'll go back to work tomorrow. I just... I need today off."

She doesn't press him; she must realise there's no point. She's accepting this half-truth for now.

"Have you told Warren?"

"Yeah, ages ago."

Another half-truth. It's true that he'd told him, but he's not exactly sure that Amy would approve of how he went about it: the short text of _I'm ill, can't come in today_ and then turning his phone off didn't scream professionalism. He knows that Warren will be too busy supervising his own group for the majority of the day to bother hounding him. It's this evening that Ste's worried about. The possibility of a visit. The possibility of footsteps leading up to the flat and the pounding fist against the door. The words. The blows. The next meeting with Danny Houston, and how the information of his absence would have filtered through.

But he's willing to take the risk.

"I wanted to ask you something," he says, and Amy seems pleasantly surprised. It makes him feel worse, the way she's clinging to the idea of him needing her, opening up to her. He's aware that it's become a rarity of late. He just wishes he knew where to begin. He's selective with his words; he needs to take his cue from her, see if she understands what he's trying to say, or if she's as oblivious as he once was. "When you saw Sarah the other week..." She looks even more taken aback now. This isn't something he does. Asking about Sarah is saved for important occasions - her birthday, Christmas, the anniversary of her death. Amy's trying to figure out what occasion it is that she's forgotten. Her frown deepens. "What did you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what did you... Did you go out somewhere, or..."

This conversation worked far better in his head. It was easy, painless. He asked, she told him. No awkward pauses, no suspicion from her end.

"We just watched a bit of telly. Why?"

He realises that being subtle here isn't going to help. He's going to have to ask outright or they'll be here all day, going round and round in circles.

"Did you have dinner?"

She's giving him a look. Ordinarily he'd be offended, but he deserves it.

"Well no," she says, like it's painfully obvious.

And it is. It should have been.

"Because..."

"Because she can't. She can't eat, so." She's faintly embarrassed to be saying it, the tips of her ears going pink. There's defiance there though too, and a steeliness that says that she's refusing to be ashamed. He watches as her face sets, as she swallows down the uncertainty. He'd be scared for anyone who was going against her now; he reckons she could hit out if they pushed her.

He feels for the bed rather than sees it. Feels for it and sinks onto it. He knew. He knew that yesterday had been real, that the sickness and the blackness hadn't been a fabrication. But he'd wanted it to be. He'd wanted to wake up and find out that it was one of his nightmares.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She doesn't answer him, and when he looks at her he sees that it's her who's trying to work him out now; studying his face and figuring out just how little he knows. _Very little,_ he wants to tell her. _Almost nothing._

"Are you saying that you didn't..."

"I didn't know," he says quietly, and he feels humiliation ripple through him. He can't bear to look at her any more; he looks at the carpet instead, at his feet, at his hands. Anywhere else. "I didn't know about Sarah, or about anyone else."

"But I don't understand -"

"No one ever told me."

"Not Warren?"

"None of them. Not Warren or Tony or Darren. I don't even know if the rest of the group know."

"But didn't you... I don't know, do some research? Or something? Years you've been in this group, Ste. _Years_."

"Yeah, I know." He doesn't need reminding. Not about his failings and ignorance, and not about the years he's wasted. "I just... I did what I was told. I went to work, and that was it. I didn't think I needed to know anything else."

He can hear the little derisive snort that Amy gives in response. He lets it pass. He understands it.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He's trying not to blame her, knows that it's not her fault, but still he wishes she'd said something. That Mike had, or Sarah. All of this could have been avoided.

"Honestly?"

He doesn't answer straight away. He's not sure that he wants honesty, not when he's been so blind for so long. But he can't keep on pretending that this doesn't exist.

"Honestly."

"You never seemed to care. Not about what Sarah can and can't do, and not... not about Sarah."

He's got his response ready, _that's not true_ , feels like he always has a argument brewing inside him somewhere. A stubborn need to be against whatever the person is for.

But this is Amy, not just anyone. And he knows she's right. He knows she has more respect for him with the way he's being now: not coming back at her with more lies. not shouting at her, not storming out of the flat, not leaving her not knowing when he'll come back and what he'll be like when he does. They aren't kids any more.

He puts a hand on her shoulder, hesitant at first because he doesn't know if she'll allow the touch. She does.

"I'm sorry," he says. Even if she wasn't here in front of him he'd say it; has to say it even to the air. He just needs to get it out, otherwise he can feel the way it would poison him, that apology he never would have said. "I'm sorry I didn't care."

She gets it. She gets what he means: that now he does.

::::::

He waits until Amy's taken Leah and Lucas out and the flat is empty. Leah had asked him the expected questions; why he wasn't at work and if her and Lucas would catch whatever it was he had. He told her that they wouldn't - to the best of his knowledge humiliation and the need to hide from the world wasn't contagious.

He goes into the bathroom. He'd already showered last night, but he can still feel it on his body. Can still smell it. He doesn't feel clean.

He gets a cloth, makes sure it's wet enough and dabs it at his neck where he'd put the aftershave. The dabbing turns to something harder, something painful. His neck begins to grow splotchy, the skin turning pink. He scrubs, avoids his eyes in the mirror, but it doesn't matter that he can't see how he looks; he feels it, and he can't escape from it.

He adds some soap to the cloth as he'd done yesterday. He knows that it's impossible that the scent could still be on him; logic tells him that his thoughts must be flawed, but it doesn't seem to reach him enough for him to stop.

He lets out a sound of frustration and moves from his feet to the floor. He drops the cloth like he's been burned when it reminds him of something. Is everything going to be like this? Is everything going to remind him?

By the end of the day there won't be a problem left to exist. Brendan will be on a plane with Carmel to Barcelona, if he isn't already. There's every chance that Brendan would have woken up last night to find Ste gone, and he would have booked the first available ticket out of there. Maybe it doesn't even matter if the destination isn't Barcelona; Brendan could have contacts all around the world for all Ste knows.

He could have gone into work today. Tony most likely would have told him that Brendan hadn't turned up, and that any phone calls had gone straight to voicemail. But there was always a chance, and Ste couldn't do it. He has to stay away until Brendan's left the country, or until he works out how to cure this sickness. Because that's what this is, what he felt, what he _thought_ he'd felt. It's sick.

::::::

He's lying on the sofa when he hears the knocking. It's quiet at first and he has to strain his ears to hear it, thinks that it's coming from the flat next door. Then it becomes difficult to ignore, and there's something else. _Steven_.

He'd know that voice anywhere.

He sinks lower onto the sofa. He'd sink to the floor if he could, but he's too scared to make any sudden movements now. He knows that he can't be seen from where he is, but he still isn't convinced that Brendan doesn't have special abilities that he isn't telling him about; sharper vision or clearer hearing. Ste wonders if he can hear him breathing right now, hear the beat of his heart as it thuds in his chest.

He's got two options: ignore the knocking until it goes away, or answer the door.

He can't let Brendan in. He knows that already. But he can't keep him outside either; Amy could be on her way back and Ste's already worked hard to keep those two worlds separate.

There's one other thing he could do - still not invite Brendan inside, but get rid of him.

He heaves himself off the sofa and makes his way out into the hallway and towards the door. He wishes that he had one of those glass doors, one where he could see the outline of Brendan's body, because at least that would prepare him, build him up slowly for what he's about to do. It seems too much, too all at once for him to go from nothing to Brendan and all that he is.

 _Steven._

He doesn't sound angry. It makes it worse. Ste wants the Brendan from the cage at the treatment centre, the Brendan who'd grabbed him and hurt him and hated him. He doesn't want the Brendan from last night, who'd looked at him the way he had. Who'd been fragile. Who'd allowed Ste to carry him to bed. Who'd let himself be helped.

 _A sickness. A sickness that can be cured._

He runs into his bedroom quickly and flings on some clothes, changing out of his pyjamas and into some jeans and a polo shirt. His hair's sticking up at odd angles from the rush, and he hastily smooths it down as he opens the front door.

He wonders what the big deal is. It's just a rotter, just Brendan, and a rough around the edges Brendan at that; sleep-deprived going by the way his eyes are drooping at the corners, and the hint of a shadow underneath. He's dressed down, casual, a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The hairs of his moustache are sticking up like he's just brushed a finger over it. Ste can smell his aftershave. He looks better than yesterday. He looks recovered, like it never happened at all.

Ste feels relieved, because he isn't feeling anything else. This is nothing. This sickness doesn't even need curing. It was a moment of madness, a mistake. It must have been the circumstances: seeing Brendan ill, and the way he'd behaved. The way he'd opened up and been honest. The way they'd been together on the bed - a stupid thing to do, Ste can see in hindsight, to sit next to him like that. But that was then, and this is now, and anything he felt has gone.

He almost feels like inviting Brendan in just to prove it.

"What are you doing here, Brendan? You should be at work."

Brendan frowns at him. "It's the evening."

Ste's about to check his phone when he remembers that he's deliberately choosing not to go on it for the rest of the day. He tries to cover his surprise; he's sure that Brendan will wonder what he's been doing to lose track of time in the way he has, and Ste can't answer that. He knows exactly what he's been doing. He knows exactly what he's been thinking about.

He knows at least that it must be early evening; Amy had said that she'd be back with the kids before seven. That means that Brendan must have come straight round from work.

"Why aren't you at home?"

"Why weren't you in today?" Brendan says, his voice louder than his, more insistent. He can see Brendan scanning him before he even manages to answer, his eyes seeming to be everywhere all at once, checking.

"I'm ill."

"With what?"

It feels less like a question and more like an inquisition.

"Just feel a bit sick, that's all."

"Caught it off me, did you?" There's light in Brendan's eyes that gets through, but Ste isn't laughing at the joke. It isn't one - not the lies or the forced lunches or the secretive toilet visits. Not Brendan hunched over in the bathroom, too weak to walk.

"You shouldn't have come here." The light vanishes. "You have no right."

"So you had a right to come to my house? Is that what you're saying?"

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because you're a drug dealer, that's why. I had a responsibility," Ste says. He doesn't add that he didn't know that the first time he went to Brendan's flat, or the second. He didn't have a responsibility then.

Brendan looks around, waits to see if anyone's heard. Ste's surprised that his neighbours haven't got their ears pressed to the glass, but then again he knows that someone being a drug dealer around these parts isn't exactly front page news.

Brendan must decide that there's no immediate threat, because he doesn't tell Ste to shut up. He doesn't knock the breath out of him and slam him against the nearest wall. He doesn't do much of anything except stand and look at him. Ste doesn't like it; the longer he looks the more he might realise that he isn't ill at all.

"Was there anything else, or...?"

He's keeping a close eye on the path leading up to the flat, trying to work out if it would even be possible for Brendan to hide if Amy came into view right this second.

"Why did you go?"

Brendan's voice pulls him back in.

"When?" Ste says.

"Yesterday."

Ste shrugs, falsely nonchalant. "You were asleep, so."

He gets an unwanted image: Brendan lying on the bed. The way he looked more peaceful asleep than he ever had awake. His lips, and what Ste had felt, and what had made him run.

"I wasn't going to wait for you."

He doesn't know if he intends to sting more with his words or with the way he says them. But it isn't what hurts the most; it's the lack of shock on Brendan's face. He doesn't care.

"Don't mess my sister around, Steven. She was worried about you."

It makes the unspoken even more obvious: that Brendan wasn't worried.

"Tell her I'm sorry." Ste hopes that Brendan will understand that he doesn't intend to. That he has no plans to ever visit the flat again. "Tell her now." He gestures down the path, away, and he knows he's being a bastard. But he has to be.

"I thought you understood why I... why I had to hide..." Brendan stops himself, looks like he thinks he's already said enough as it is.

He thinks this is what this is about. This coldness, this need for him to leave. He thinks Ste hasn't forgiven him for hiding the truth about the food. Ste could laugh at how much he wishes that could be it.

Not that he's entirely wrong. When he hasn't been thinking about what made him run, he's been thinking about everything else. Everything he missed. Everything he'd never questioned.

"Elizabeth made you coffee." He's spent hours thinking about this, but clearly Brendan hasn't; he looks confused, a step behind until he realises where Ste's going with this. "When we went to that place, she made you coffee. And she offered you food. Biscuits."

He hadn't imagined that. He remembers it perfectly. He remembers everything about that day. The relief of Carmel not showing up during their break. Finding Brendan in the bathroom. His honesty, telling Ste that he was in pain, that he hadn't got any new contact lenses in months. How it felt like a secret that only Ste got to know. The drive to see Elizabeth. The drive back. _This is what we do._

He wants Brendan to tell him that everything that happened yesterday was wrong. That him being sick - that blackness filling the toilet - was because of something else. That he could eat, _can_ eat.

"She took her cue from me," Brendan says, scratching his neck, smoothing a hand through his hair, and Ste gets it; he needs to be doing something, anything with his hands to detract from how uncomfortable this feels. "She didn't know if you knew, and..."

"She was testing you." It's not a question, because he understands it now. Brendan wasn't the only one in on this. He had help. And Ste had missed all the signs, again. He knows that Elizabeth was doing a good thing - doing what Brendan wanted - but he would happily never see her again. It would be safer for her.

He wants to ask him if there's anyone who _didn't_ know before him, but it sounds childish. Spoiled. And he knows that there's a long list of people who still don't know, but somehow that doesn't matter. Somehow all that matters is that Ste didn't.

"You should go."

"Because of Amy?"

"Yes," he says, and he instantly regrets it. He knows what it implies: that he doesn't want Amy to see him. It's the truth; he just isn't sure that he wants Brendan to know it. But when he thinks about Amy seeing them together and then finding out about Brendan's death months down the line, his decision is made for him. "You can't come here. Not now, not ever."

Brendan still isn't moving. He's like a statue, beautiful, looking at him with thoughtful eyes. Ste can't read them.

"Brendan, _please_."

Are those real footsteps on the pavement, or is he imagining them?

"Come for a drive with me, Steven."

He can't. This sickness, this thing that's got hold of him, he hasn't worked it out yet. He doesn't know how deep it runs. Being in close proximity to Brendan - a hand accidentally brushing against his, a shared smile at Brendan insulting a song that comes on the radio - it isn't safe territory.

But he's starting to think that no amount of begging is going to make Brendan go away.

"Fine." He makes a song and dance about it; huffs a little too loudly, makes sure that he looks frustrated, put out. He hopes that it'll hide the charge of excitement he feels. He's pleased when he can turn his back on Brendan to grab his house keys from inside, making sure that he doesn't follow him. Some of the tension leaves him fleetingly when he doesn't have to rearrange his face into something he doesn't feel. When he doesn't have to try so hard.

"You've got ten minutes," he says.

The car's parked nearby. Ste knows the routine by now: he gets in the passenger seat, straps himself in, puts the radio on. It's tuned to his favourite station, just like it's been the last few times. The music's a welcome distraction, but Brendan quickly leans over, turns the volume down. It's background noise now, no longer loud enough to drown out everything else.

Ste rearranges himself in his seat, hoping that Brendan missed the way he'd jumped and leant back when he'd reached for the radio.

He can do this. This isn't any different to all the other times, to every drive home, to every other interaction he's ever had with Brendan. There had to be something wrong in him to ever think what he thought, and to dream what he'd dreamed, but he can put it right. It isn't too late.

"Are you coming in tomorrow?"

It's not what Ste thought Brendan would ask first. He'd expected questions about the holiday, about Carmel. He'd been prepared for Brendan to try and manipulate the situation somehow, to tell Ste that he was going to Barcelona and that he couldn't stop him.

"Don't know. Why?"

 _Did it feel wrong without me?_ He wants to know if he felt as strange as Ste did when Brendan had been late for work in the past, when he'd searched the group and couldn't find him. Disjointed, he'd felt. Out of sync. Something was lacking. Something was missing.

"Just wanted to know if you were planning on being ill again, that's all."

There's something about the way that Brendan says _ill._ There's something about the _planning._

"I didn't plan anything. I told you, I'm -"

"Not well, yeah. You might want to let Antony know. Two groups and one staff... Not exactly safe, is it?"

Ste's sure he would have received at least a couple of messages from Tony if he turned on his phone. The first would be brief, irritated, a show of exasperation at how he was possibly going to handle all the rotters on his own for the day. The second would be longer, more considered, kinder. Wondering what was going on with him, and if he could fix it.

Ste doesn't know what's worse; his anger or his understanding.

"Is that a threat?" It feels like something to latch onto, a deflection. Easier than thinking about letting Tony down.

"It's a fact."

"If you're going to do something then -"

"Great, so first you think I'm a drug dealer, then you think I'm planning something against your dad?"

"Tony is _not_ my dad. And you are a drug dealer."

Brendan doesn't argue.

"Anyway, why do you care if I go back to work? I thought you'd be in Barcelona by now."

He's said what he was afraid to say, but he doesn't feel any better for it. He watches carefully for Brendan's reaction, for some indication that he wishes he was there instead. Brendan keeps his eyes on the road.

"I made a promise."

"And your promises mean something, do they?" Ste says, making no attempt to hide his scepticism. If there's one person who lies even more than he does, then he can bet on it being Brendan.

"That one did."

He's momentarily stunned into silence. The song on the radio plays on.

"For how long?"

He thinks Brendan's going to lie to him again: _Always, Steven,_ or pretend that he's offended. But he doesn't.

"For now" he says, and it occurs to Ste that he'd take this answer right now over any other. At least it's honest. The threat of telling Warren about Brendan dealing drugs had brought the holiday to a halt, but Ste had never really believed that it would be a permanent ending. It's buying him time, that's all.

"Tomorrow."

"What?" Brendan says.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

 _Next week,_ he wants to say. _Next year. Never._ But he has to see this through to the end. He could run for a while, but he has to stop eventually. He knows that.

He reaches inside his pocket, gets his phone out. He's ready now. He turns it on and waits, and surely enough it soon comes to life with messages. He'd guessed right - two from Tony, and more from Warren. Much more.

He didn't think he could do this, but it's easier with Brendan beside him.

The voicemail message first: _Ratboy, you can't do this. Come in straight away. I'm not fucking around here._

It's not the only one, but Ste deletes the others.

The messages next.

 _Pick up your phone._

 _If you think you're being paid for this you're having a laugh._

A dozen more, some of them threats. And then a final one.

 _I'll be letting Danny know about this._

"You okay?"

He starts at the sound of Brendan's voice.

"Yeah, fine. Why?"

"You're shivering."

He hadn't realised.

"It's cold, that's all." He rolls up the window, roughly strokes the goosebumps from his arms.

"Foxy bothering you?"

Ste looks at him, laughs.

"What did you just call him?"

"Foxy."

It feels good to laugh. It feels necessary. He does it again.

"He'd hate that."

"I know." Brendan smiles, all teeth.

"How did you know it was him?" He tucks his phone away, wondering if there's any possibility that Brendan could have seen that last message.

"Because you looked scared. And you always look scared with him."

They're silent for a moment.

"Want me to take care of him for you?" Brendan says, and he's still smiling but it's a different smile this time.

"What?" Ste says. He isn't smiling.

"Warren. Want me to take care of him?"

"Very funny." Ste almost nudges him, _matey_ , but he remembers that he isn't meant to be doing that. He isn't meant to be touching him at all.

"Funny. Yeah."

He feels himself shiver again.

::::::

He drives him home. Ste knows that Amy and the kids must be back when he sees the flat flooded with light. He makes Brendan reverse, makes him go back up the street and far enough out of sight that Amy won't be able to see the car if she looks out through the curtains. He'll have to think of an excuse as to why he was out when he's meant to be ill; they needed milk, perhaps, and if they already have enough then he'll have to fake ignorance, pass it off as a mistake. Of all the lies he's told, it'll be one of the better ones.

He takes off his seatbelt. The radio's still on; Ste knows that Brendan will change the station the moment he's gone. He wonders if he'll listen to the same singer that he does at home, the one whose record had been playing last night. Or does it remind him of his deceit, of locking the bathroom door, of kneeling over the toilet? The blackness.

He's about to say thank you for the lift home, only he remembers that he hadn't gone to work, and Brendan hadn't been doing him a favour.

"I meant what I said. You can't come here again, okay?"

Brendan nods. There's something about it, something that Ste doesn't believe.

"Bye," Brendan says, and Ste knows it's just a word, knows it's something people say all the time, _goodbye_ , but he can't bring himself to say it back.

"Goodnight."

He gets out of the car, starts walking. It's only a short distance from where the car's parked to his flat, and when he looks back he can't see the car, can't see Brendan. He doesn't know why he feels like he's being watched. There can't be anyone following him - he can't hear them, can't see them - and this sense he's got, this _instinct_ , it must just be paranoia.

He turns his key softly in the lock. This is the part where he should call out, watch as the kids come running, but he stays silent a little longer. He makes sure that the door doesn't make a sound when he closes it.

There can't be anyone outside, not when he'd seen it deserted a moment ago. He can't feel Brendan on the other side of the door; that must be his imagination, his paranoia, again. He reaches out a hand, presses it against the frame and waits. _Warmth._ He feels warmth.

He removes his hand, touches his arm instead. The arm that wants to reach out and hold him. He takes his hand off, puts it on his leg now. The leg that wants to wrap around him. The hand's removed again, and brought up to his lips. His lips.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll bury this sickness for ever, but tonight he'll dream.


	28. Chapter 28

His eyes are closed, his lashes lightly fluttering. His body is awake, and even without seeing he knows that the sunlight is filtering through the curtains. It must have woken him.

He's not ready yet. He wills everything to stay still, no interruptions. He wants to stay here just a little bit longer.

He can hold onto the dream if he tries hard enough. This isn't like last night; he can't remember what happened, but he remembers who was there, and he remembers what he felt. And that seems more important than the details. It seems more important than anything.

His hands are below the sheets, lying at his sides. He moves them, then stops himself. This wasn't what he'd decided. _Tomorrow I'll bury this._ Tomorrow is no longer something vague and untouchable. It's here, now, and this would be the opposite of burying it. This would be giving it wings and letting it fly.

 _I won't do it._ The thought doesn't give him the finality and the comfort that he craves, and there's that voice inside him, that petulant tone of frustration that tells him that he's going to feel a whole lot worse if he doesn't give in.

He's not in a dreamlike state any more. He could forgive himself if he was; could overlook where his hands want to be and where his mind wants to go, so long as he wasn't fully in control of his own actions. It's forgivable, what he dreams about. There's an abdication of responsibility, an abdication of blame. But not this. Not being awake, being present, and being weak.

He brings the cover up higher over himself and nestles in, creating a cocoon of warmth. With it the haze of tiredness reaches him, and he allows it to penetrate his bones. He's been fighting against it for months, this exhaustion that he feels from his arms to his legs to his shoulders, but he isn't doing anything to reject it now.

His bedroom door's locked, and he can't hear the sound of the kids. He can't hear anything much - not the noise of the occupants from the other flats, or the sound of the dustbin collectors doing their rounds. It's quiet, still, and it makes it easier to drift.

 _Hair._

That's what he thinks of first, and it seems strange that it would come to him before anything else. It's curiosity, that's what it is. All the times he's seen his moustache, so distinct, so unlike anything he's ever seen on anyone, alive or dead, and how he wonders what it would feel like if he could reach out and touch it.

His chest too, and the hair that Ste's seen covering it when Brendan's in a shirt that hasn't been done up to the top button. It's dark, as dark as his moustache. He'd seen it on his stomach too. There was more of it than had ever covered his own upper body. Ste has wisps of the stuff, insubstantial, the kind that would be gone with a quick go-over with a razor. Brendan's is thicker, denser. The sort of hair that you'd feel if you ran your fingers over it.

 _Hands._

Strong hands. Hands that Ste knows could break him, but which never had. Hands that had touched him and pushed him and pulled him. Hands which had steered him to look at him, until he couldn't look away.

 _Eyes._

The blue of his contact lenses, and what's left behind when there's no filter.

He's drifted enough for his movements to feel unconscious. His hand reaches out, feeling its way under the covers. The heat is stifling, but if he were to let the air in then he doesn't know what he would let out with it. A spell broken.

He stops when his hand's inside his pyjama bottoms, letting it rest there. He can hear the clock on his bedside table ticking; he'd never noticed how loud it can be. There's a beat, a moment when anything could happen, and slowly he begins to play his index finger over his cock.

It responds immediately, just from the friction he's giving it against the mattress and that single finger. He doesn't remember the last time this happened; this charge of excitement, this possibility. His mind must be forgetful - he knows he felt like this with Veronica. He must have, to have done what he did with her. But the memory feels distorted, muddied.

He recalibrates, concentrates, but it's difficult. It's difficult when Brendan's in his head and his cock's in his hand now, his lips hurting from the marks that his teeth are making. It's difficult when there's sweat on his brow and his balls are heavy and his hands don't feel enough. Release is what he wants, but even if he comes he knows that he won't feel it.

He goes stock-still, the only sign of movement an all over body shudder that quickly subsides. His dick's rigid, uncomfortable, and his erection doesn't go down - not when his hands withdraw, and not when he sits at the edge of the bed, eyes still closed. He only stands when his dick is soft again, and he can't work out if the creaking of the floor is a groan of frustration at what he's done or what he hasn't.

Water. He needs water. Not to drink it, but to feel it on his face, feel it trickling down his skin and reviving him. The bathroom's taken so he makes do with the sink in the kitchen, filling the washbowl almost to the brim and not worrying about being careful; he watches as some of the water makes its way down the cupboards and splashes onto his T-shirt.

He doesn't dry himself; better to leave it there and let it cool his skin.

He isn't asleep any more. He isn't in a haze and he isn't confused. Everything that happens from now on, he's done. That was it - a few thoughts, a dream, and a half-realised fantasy. But he hadn't come.

He's ready for this sickness to be over now.

::::::

He's never much liked his Human Volunteer Force uniform. The way it makes him stand out, the way it makes people stop and stare in the street, their expressions either showing respect or hostility depending on their stance.

Today it's a relief: the lack of thought that goes into throwing it on is comforting. There are no debates in front of the mirror, no hurried changes as he tears off clothes to replace them with the next outfit, and the next. He's washed and dressed and has some breakfast inside him, and then he's done. Out of the door.

He's expecting to be followed. Expecting to hear footsteps and feel a hand spinning him around, its grip strong, unrelenting. He'd spent hours wondering if he was going to wake in the middle of the night to find Warren and Danny standing over him in the darkness, and the light of the morning isn't giving him the safety that it ought to. He doesn't feel protected.

He jumps at a sudden noise of a car alarm going off, picking up the pace and making ground now. He isn't quite running, but he wonders if he looks like he is.

It's unnerving to reach the centre of the village unscathed. He wants to get it over with, whatever Warren and Danny have planned for him. Taking a day off work never goes down with Warren, but Ste knows it's not just that - it's them knowing that he's missed a day with Brendan, and potentially missed an opportunity to get something else on him. It's not something that they're going to let slide.

Jacqui, Rhys and Malachy are waiting at the meeting spot. Malachy looks rather relieved to see him; Ste guesses that he's had his share of being a gooseberry for the day. Rhys gives him a nod of acknowledgement, which he hastily tries to cover up after a warning glance from Jacqui. He'd put money on Carmel already forgiving him for what he had said when they last saw each other, but he knows that doesn't matter. Jacqui doesn't forget so easily.

"Feeling better now?" Malachy asks. "You still look a bit..."

"A bit what?"

"A bit rough," Jacqui says, adding a smile with it.

"Ta." He turns away. The only thing that's worse than her getting to him is showing her that she is.

This is the part that he dreads whenever Tony hasn't shown up yet: small talk. Or in his case, no talk.

At first they're silent, but Jacqui and Rhys soon get over his presence and start talking about everything and nothing - Mercedes's new boyfriend of the week apparently, and Rhys's sister going abroad. Ste waits for Jacqui to mention Carmel, waits to hear _Barcelona_ , but it doesn't come.

Malachy fiddles with his phone, distracted. Ste wonders if he's doing it just for show. Just so he doesn't have to speak to him. He considers trying to start a conversation to make the time pass, so the silence stretching before them isn't so painfully obvious, but he can't think of anything to say. Everything sounds trite in his head. He doesn't know what they could possibly have in common.

Ste tries not to turn his head with every sound, every indication that their group will grow in numbers. It isn't easy; he's hyper-aware, receptive to every movement. Wondering when he'll hear it: the familiar _Hello, Steven,_ or _Morning, Steven,_ or just that one word, just his name, as though that's enough. Strange, how quickly it's become something that feels like it was always there.

He doesn't know if Brendan thinks of it as being fashionably late, but he's making him wait. The others arrive, migrating towards the centre of the village one by one. Ste knows that they've still got five minutes to spare, but he's already entertaining the idea of having to keep Brendan behind for another detention.

 _No._ He has to remember that it's not going to be like that any more. The detentions, the drives home, the drinks at The Loft, the run-ins. It all ends.

Tony makes a beeline for him when he reaches the group.

"Alright mate? How are you feeling?"

"Fine, yeah."

"I was worried about you."

"Haven't you ever got ill before?" Ste says, with a little too much bite.

Tony bounces back; he's got used to this over the years. The snappiness, the moods.

"We missed you, that's all."

Ste doesn't know who _we_ is meant to be. The others won't have missed him. The likelihood is that they would have been celebrating his absence. He can't help but feel gratitude for this attempt at a lie though.

"Were you okay though?" Ste says. "On your own, I mean."

He hadn't allowed himself to think about the position he'd put Tony in, a single HVF member alone with two groups of rotters. He knew they tended to listen when Tony was giving them instructions; there seemed to be a sense of respect there, however much they sometimes whispered under their breaths about his latest failed joke. But Ste didn't believe that there was no risk that they'd turn on him if they got the chance. And yesterday would have been perfect. He would have been outnumbered.

"It was fine. Darren moved his group closer to where we were, so I had backup." He's saying this quietly, presumably not wanting the others to know that he needed help. Ste imagines Tony trying to pretend that Darren joining them had been a coincidence. He can see it now, the unnatural attempts to make it believable.

"Tony, I'm..."

He's about to say it. He needs to say it.

"It's okay."

"No, please. Let me say it."

"Ste." He puts a hand on his shoulder. It feels solid. Reassuring. "You said it yourself. Everyone gets ill sometimes, don't they?"

It makes it worse. The guilt is crippling.

He changes the subject. It's all he can do; if he keeps going down this road then he's afraid he'll let something slip.

"Was everyone okay?"

"Any trouble you mean?"

Ste nods.

"It was fine. Except..."

"What?"

"Well, except for Brendan."

Ste draws in a breath. "What happened?"

Another fight with Malachy, he's expecting. Or an argument with Jacqui over the holiday plans being thwarted, and Carmel ending up in tears.

Tony doesn't say anything.

"Tony? What happened?" He can hear his impatience.

"I... don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"He was just... weird."

"Brendan's always weird."

Tony laughs. "More weird than usual, then. I can't explain it."

 _Try._ Ste wants to shake the answer out of him.

"Did he start something? Something with Malachy, or -"

"No, nothing like that. He was quiet, kept to himself. He just looked... agitated. Really agitated. Like he couldn't wait to be out of there."

The question is on the tip of his tongue: _Did he ask about me?_

There's a moment when it seems possible that he could ask him, but the weight of it settles in. The way it would sound. What it could suggest. The way Tony would look at him if he knew.

"We'll have to keep an eye on him today," Tony says, and Ste fights with his instinct to refuse. He doesn't want to keep an eye on Brendan. He doesn't want to have to look at all.

"That's if he shows up."

It's as though he's summoned him with his words. The chatter of the group dies away, replaced by the atmosphere that always seems to exist when Brendan's around. A newly felt tension. An unpredictability.

It's not that he's the most attractive man that Ste's ever seen. It's not that at all. There had been men on the dating site who had looked like models from a billboard advert; honed bodies that suggested punishing gym routines, and - with the few that seemed to think that topless shots were the only pictures worth uploading - chests and stomachs without a speckle of hair. Pristine. Beach-ready. The kind that adorned the pages of social media and that you automatically hated, because it seemed impossible. Unattainable.

Brendan isn't like that. He has lines under his eyes that become more pronounced in the rare times when he smiles. There are muscles evident underneath the clinging suits and tight T-shirts, but he knows how to drink. How to let loose. How to eat too, presumably, going by Cheryl's recollections of a human Brendan and the extent that he goes to to fool her. Ste can't imagine Brendan shaving like all these other men shave; he'd laugh at the idea, has probably never considered it. And his moustache is something that would have struggled to be fashionable years ago. It marks him out, sometimes even more so than the cover up mousse and contact lenses. Ste's seen people talk about it, mock it - owners of shops that the rotters had worked at, or staff at the cinema where they'd gone to. Brendan had noticed, had looked at them. _So what?_ That was the look. _This is who I am. So fucking what?_

He isn't a model. He isn't perfect. But Ste isn't sure he'd ever seen anything he wanted more.

He's dressed down. No impractical tight suit. No newly shined shoes. His uniform today is a pair of trainers with jeans, and a black T-shirt underneath a black leather jacket. He's wearing sunglasses; it ought to make Ste feel better, not being able to see his eyes. It isn't helping.

 _It's just Brendan. Ten years older than me Brendan. The Brendan who likes to listen to depressing music and drink rank whiskey. The Brendan who has threatened my life on more than one occasion. The Brendan who's suggested that he's broken into my home. The Brendan who has lied to me. The Brendan who I have to kill. That Brendan._

"What are you wearing?" Ste doesn't bother to lower his voice, lets the whole group hear. He isn't going to take Brendan off to one side and have this conversation in whispers to save his pride. It's better like this, where they have an audience. It's safer.

"Why? Want some tips, Steven? Break away from those tracksuits of yours..."

There's an uncomfortable ripple of laughter; uncomfortable because Brendan doesn't usually make them laugh.

Ste remains stony-faced, hopes that his lack of a reaction won't draw attention to the fact that Brendan's just suggested that he knows what he wears outside of work.

"You need to change. That's not practical."

"Practical? You want to talk practical?" Brendan's eyes swivel to Jacqui's boots and the heel which could successfully have someone's eye out. Admittedly Ste and Tony have become lax about dress codes recently.

"Go home and change," Ste says, resolutely ignoring the slight against Jacqui. "We'll wait."

Tony's by his side, cutting in. "Ste, that's not really necessary."

"He can't just turn up like that."

"He looks fine," Tony says.

He doesn't look fine. He looks distracting. Mesmerising.

But he's not going to win this one. The others are looking at him like, for once, they're on Brendan's side.

"Just put this on," Ste says, unceremoniously throwing Brendan the yellow cover-up that the rest of the rotters are wearing over their normal clothes. He can still see the leather jacket peeking out of the side. He'd take the suits over this; they don't look like something that Brendan would wear in the intimacy of his own home.

"Everyone ready?" Tony says. "Let's set off." He sounds falsely cheerful. Purposefully trying to move them all on and make them forget about what's just happened.

It's a short walk to the park. They break off into their usual fragments: Rhys and Jacqui walking together, and the quieter members of the group hanging back. Brendan is off to one side, just close enough to still seem part of the group from an outsider looking in, but far enough away that he seems isolated from the others. Not one of them.

Ste resists the urge to fall back with him, keep him company.

"What was all that about?"

He flinches at the sound of Tony's voice. He can feel his pulse at his wrist, erratic now.

"Nothing. I wasn't doing anything." Caught him staring, has he? Caught him looking behind him, where he shouldn't look.

"Jeans and a leather jacket isn't exactly breaking any rules, Ste."

He feels some of the tension leave his body. So he hadn't caught him. This line of questioning is easier to deal with.

"I know Warren probably wants you to get Brendan into trouble, but..."

"This isn't about Warren."

"Then what's it about?"

He doesn't know how to begin.

Ste shrugs, looks around them like the presence of the rotters is what's stopping him from saying more. It seems to be enough to convince Tony not to pursue it.

"Maybe you shouldn't have come back today."

"I'm fine."

"You look a bit..."

"A bit what?" Ste says, angry with himself for not being able to hide it. First Malachy, and now Tony. He thought he'd looked normal when he'd seen his reflection in the mirror this morning.

"I can call Darren if you want. Get him to come again."

"No," Ste says, although his actions are contradictory; he's pretty sure he nods his head. He could be at home, safe, instead of feeling Brendan's eyes on him as he walks. But he hasn't got a choice. "I'm staying."

::::::

He'd never realised how vast the park is. How many blinds spots there are, and dark corners where you could be out of sight if you wanted to be. He heard stories about it in The Rising, and he'd seen it first hand: the killings and the brutality and the bodies lying in the grass. The blood spattered along the barks of the trees. He had killed rabids here, taken them down with nothing more than his gun and Tony by his side.

He's remembering. He wonders if Tony remembers it too.

"Right, no funny business you two," Tony says, directing his words towards Brendan and Malachy. Something about an open space like this seems to make the animosity between them worse. There aren't as many people out here to distract them. The staring faces, the unconcealed judgement, the hushed whispers - it's unwanted, but it keeps the peace. It's something else to focus on.

Malachy nods. Brendan looks unconvinced.

Another group must have been here yesterday. It's almost too clean, and Ste can already see the mixed reaction from the rotters. Some are grateful, clearly imagining a shift consisting of nothing but talking and whiling away the time. Others are growing agitated at the apparent lack of structure; they come to work to work, not to spend eight hours with two humans.

Ste wanders off, tries to find an untouched area. He ends up going further than he'd planned, and when he hears a crunch of footsteps on the undergrowth he almost calls out. He's lulled himself into a false sense of security in recent weeks, but they're still rotters, and some of them still hate him.

He puts his hand on his gun, spins around.

"Not going to shoot me, are you?"

Brendan has his hands in the air, has come to a mock standstill.

It's too much. Too close to his dream. But it won't end the same way.

"Stop stalking me."

"Stalking," Brendan says, like he's testing the word out. "Stalking..."

"Yeah. _Stalking_. Following me around, it's..."

He hates it. He hates that he doesn't really hate it at all.

"You're meant to be my boss, Steven. Aren't I meant to take orders?" Still with that same tone. Still mocking.

"I'm not your boss," Ste says, before remembering that he's meant to be. But it's too much of a tie between them. Too much of a connection.

Brendan moves closer, and Ste lowers his gun. He can't let this be like the dream.

"If you're not my boss, does that make me yours?"

Ste can't speak. This sickness, it's infecting him again. Working its way inside his body.

 _He's not even human._

He forces himself to remember the Brendan who had been in the cage. The oddly coloured eyes. The transparency of his skin. The black around his fingernails. The strength of him. The sight of him behind the bars.

If he'd stayed in the cage then none of this would ever have happened. He'd be shut away from the rest of the world, kept in the darkness. All they would have had is that one hour together, and Ste never would have thought about him ever again. The door would be closed. There would be no sickness, no dreams. He wouldn't be standing here, knowing that he should leave, that it isn't right, but having no intention of moving.

"Brendan..."

He's close. Closer. There are droplets of water on the leaves of the tree from when it rained last night; one trickles down and Ste watches its path from the top of Brendan's head to his chin, to where it eventually lands on his jacket. It must be only seconds, but it seems to be happening in slow motion. Everything does; the step forward that Ste takes, and the way he says his name again, _Brendan_ , and the answer he gets, _Steven_ , and how good it sounds from his lips.

He must have been wrong. This must be a dream, because Brendan isn't backing away, and he isn't telling him to stop, and the fear that Ste expects to come hasn't reached the surface yet. Anything seems possible. It wouldn't hurt, would it, to kiss him, to take what he wants, as long as it's all a dream. It wouldn't hurt anyone.

Except he isn't the only one calling Brendan's name.

He sees the uniform first, the brightness of it blinding him. The blonde hair piled high in a bun. The slick of baby-pink lipstick. The boots treading on gravel, and the overpowering smell of her perfume.

Ste darts away like a frightened animal, creates distance between them. His "What are you doing here?" is openly hostile. He's worried she's seen it on his face; seen the longing which he hadn't been able to hide.

He isn't the one she's looking at though.

"Hello boys," she says, smiling, and there's such hope in her eyes that it's difficult to look at.

"Carmel." Brendan moves forward, gives her a kiss on the cheek. She responds to the touch, her entire body seeming to lean into him.

"I thought I'd have lunch with you."

"It's hours till lunch," Ste says, and Brendan shoots him a look. He isn't trying to be rude, and that's what's worse - he doesn't feel in control of it, not any more.

"I can keep you company. Make sure no one bothers you."

"You're worried about a bunch of rotters being bothered?" Ste huffs a laugh, regrets it when he sees Brendan's face. He hadn't meant that. He hadn't meant it _like_ that. He's about to apologise, but Carmel's speaking over him.

"You can never be too careful in these parts, Ste. I wouldn't be a good police officer if I wasn't doing my duty, would I?"

Community police officer, he wants to correct. But he's too busy laughing internally at the idea of this being anything to do with her _duty_.

"We've got work to be getting on with," Ste says, hoping that Carmel hadn't seen that they were doing anything but work.

"I won't be a distraction, don't worry."

He doesn't miss the wink Carmel sends Brendan's way, or the very real, unavoidable truth that she will be a distraction. That she already is; when Ste begins walking back to the rest of the group, he's not sure if Brendan even notices him leaving.

::::::

He usually looks forward to lunch time. It's the second best part of his day, only behind the moment when he gets to go home. He can sit with Tony and not feel guilty about not doing any work while the rest of the group are on their feet all day. It used to be entertaining, watching Brendan disgust the others with his purposefully exaggerated eating habits, and how he'd always manage to get a condiment - ketchup, mayonnaise, whatever was available - on his moustache.

Now Ste wonders if the disgust was because they knew what was coming later in the privacy of the toilets.

He watches the group carefully. Brendan knows he's watching; several times he glances over at him, and Ste can't help but feel that he's being warned: _Shut up._

He hadn't been planning on saying anything, but it's difficult to keep up the charade when he sees just how elaborate the whole thing is. The way the rotters talk about what they're going to be eating, and how some of them even fake hunger and excitement. Ste watches as the staff in the cafe take their orders, and he tries to look for any sign that they know what's going on. A few of them don't seem to have a clue, but there's a moment when Ste thinks one of the staff is going to say something. There's a hesitation, a look, a double take, but then they seem to think better of it and the food is served.

He listens as Brendan makes his order. Fish and chips, with mushy peas on the side and a beer - Tony will only allow a half-pint - to wash it down with. Ste elbows his way to the front of the queue.

"He'll get a sandwich. No beer. Just a water. Ta."

Brendan stares at him. The person behind the counter stares at him. Everyone's staring.

" _He_ won't."

"Brendan -"

"Steven."

"I mean it." He tries to keep his voice as normal as possible. "Everyone else is getting sandwiches. I've seen the portion of those chips, we'll be here forever if you have that. And this whole drinking at lunch thing stops, alright? You're at work."

He's not sure if he sounds convincing, but Brendan must know that the longer they stand her and argue, the more of a chance that Ste says something incriminating.

"Fine." Brendan turns back to the counter, sounding very much not fine. "What he said. I'll have a sandwich. Chicken."

Ste isn't sure how these things work, but he hopes that Brendan's new order will mean that he spends less time throwing his meal up. He can't forget the violence of what he'd seen at the flat. How it seemed like it would never end. And black. Endless black.

It's worth the look Brendan gives him. The look that tells him that this discussion is anything but over.

::::::

"You really hate him, don't you?"

Ste's barely listening.

"What?"

"Brady," Tony says.

Now Ste's listening.

He tuns to him, swallows down his food. His lunch isn't as appetising as it usually is; it sticks to the roof of his mouth and increasingly tastes of nothing as he watches the rotters pretend to be able to eat the food in front of them.

"Brendan?"

"Yeah. Not exactly making thing easy for him, are you?"

His heart is racing.

"I haven't done anything."

"Come on, Ste. First this morning, all that talk about his clothes. And now with lunch. And the way you're looking at Carmel -"

He coughs. His food's gone down the wrong way; Tony makes a grab for his bottle of water and insists he drinks it. Out of the corner of his eye Ste can see Brendan rising from his seat, looking like he's poised in mid-air, ready to move if necessary. The coughing subsides, and Brendan sits back down.

"I'm not looking at her."

"I know she's good looking, and I know you don't like her with Brendan, but she clearly likes him."

Ste doesn't know what's worse: the fact that Tony thinks he fancies Carmel, or that he thinks she's with Brendan. That they're seen like that. A package deal.

 _She likes him._

"I told you, there's something going on. It's not right. Don't laugh!"

"Sorry, but it is a little funny. You're obsessed." The laughing stops, and he lowers his voice. "Listen, don't forget what I said."

"You say a lot of things."

"About not getting too involved. I know you can't stand Brendan, but it's not good to get too... you know, carried away. Don't make this personal, Ste."

"Let me guess - it's not personal, it's business? Is that what you're going to tell me next?"

"It's true," Tony says. "And having the hots for Brendan's girlfriend is the last thing you need."

"She's not his girlfriend."

Another laugh.

"Yeah, alright mate."

Ste takes another bite of his sandwich. It's hard to swallow.

"Tony?"

"Mm?"

"Do you think I was wrong before? You know, what I said about Brendan's lunch."

He waits. Over at Jacqui's table he can see her playing with her food with her fork. Most of it's been left on the side, pushed up against there to make it look like there's less of it.

"You're probably right about the drinking. Not exactly professional, is it? I just wanted an easy life, to be honest. Less of Brendan getting at me. But it wouldn't hurt to let him choose what he wants to eat. The way he puts it away it's not like we'll be waiting hours for him."

He doesn't know. Ste had been sure before, but he's convinced of it now. Tony would never be this vindictive, would never force the rotters to eat if he knew the truth.

He wants to tell him. He can see some of the group beginning to go to the toilets, and it's all so carefully constructed, so casual. They don't all go at once, and they're rehearsed. It's become their reality.

One day he'll tell him. But not now. He made a promise; a promise to Brendan.

"Yeah. It wouldn't hurt."

He waits for Brendan to come back from the bathroom. He counts the time it takes: five minutes. It's not like last time. He isn't huddled over in pain.

He doesn't watch the others after that. It's not that it doesn't matter; it does. It just matters less with them, is all.

::::::

At the end of the day he takes the register, makes sure that everyone's accounted for.

He stumbles a few times over the names, but there's no laughter. No mutters of _freak_ or _remember what happened at the library?_

He doesn't stop to see if Brendan's waiting for him. He's thought this through, taken all the precautions he can. He's got his headphones in the pocket of his uniform and he takes them out and plugs them into his phone, fiddles about on it till he gets the music playing. The sound of the post-work traffic on the streets is replaced with the thump of the song; what it is doesn't matter. He just needs it to be something, anything, so he can't hear any voices of the people passing him. So he can't hear one voice.

He's done what he'd meant to do, but it isn't that easy. As soon as the headphones are in he wants to take them out, rip them from his ears. He wants to hear _that_ voice. He wants the possibility of it. He wants to know that Brendan's here, that he hasn't gone home with Carmel. That their drives home will be forever fixed. That they'll be something that just happens, the same as the way the sun always rises in the morning, and the way that there are twelve months to a year. Something that can't change.

But if he hears Brendan's voice, if he hears _Steven, stop,_ then he won't go home.

He sends a quick text.

 _Need to see you. 10 mins at the treatment centre. If you aren't there then I'm going to the council and I'll tell them everything._

Send: Warren.

::::::

He'd known that he had to be prepared to make a threat to get Warren to meet him. Asking nicely wouldn't work. Warren liked his evenings free; Ste used to think that he was trying to bin them off so he could go down to the pub, but when he and Tony used to try to catch him out he was never there.

He hadn't entirely meant what was in the text, not when he'd typed it out. It was only afterwards that he considered it. He knew there would be repercussions, that Warren would never let him get away with grassing on him. But it seemed worth it.

Even still, he reaches the treatment centre too quickly for his liking. When he takes his headphones out he half expects to hear that teasing tone - _Ignoring me, Steven?_ \- but it's silent. Too silent. It unnerves him, and he runs up the steps before he can go back on the whole thing.

He approaches the reception slowly, waiting until the queue goes down, and he gives a silent prayer of thanks when it isn't the same woman at the desk as the last time. She waves him through when he flashes her his ID, and Ste walks to the room the HVF use and waits.

And waits.

He wonders if Warren is doing this on purpose. He'll know that it's making him more nervous, anticipating the moment when he hears footsteps along the hall and a turn of the door handle. The problem is, in a place like this there's lots of footsteps; Ste holds his breath every time they approach, only for the sound to die down again. They must be doctors and nurses. It can't be rabids; there's no violence, no sound of a struggle.

He looks around the room. The cage isn't here any more, but if he closes his eyes he can still see it. He can still see Brendan behind the bars, and he can still remember how it felt being dragged inside and held up against them. The ache of his wrists at the force of Brendan's hands on him.

It feels like a lifetime ago. He tries to get back the fear from that day, the hatred he'd felt for this creature, this monster. He can't. He can't connect the Brendan he knows now with the Brendan he met back then.

His eyes move away, to his right and up: the shelves. The files. They're all there, all the rotters. Their names, their dates of birth, their addresses, their phone numbers. And more. Personal details. Their histories.

He'd resisted last time. He'd managed not to look, but he's stuck here now, no distractions. If he could just get Brendan's phone number, just make a note of it, just send him a message.

He laughs. He's an idiot. He's worse than an idiot - he's a liar. It wouldn't just be that. The message would ruin everything. He can already imagine what he'd write, some pathetically hopeful text asking Brendan to go for a drink with him or asking him how his weekend was, or if he'd happened to have any crazy dreams lately where Ste was about to kill him but kissed him instead, and never stopped kissing him.

Getting his number would be a death wish. And he knows it wouldn't end there. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from turning the pages of Brendan's file and finding out everything. It would be addictive, having that information all to himself.

His fingers drum on the table. He can already feel himself rising from his seat.

The door opens.

He looks like he's stood up especially for Warren. He sits down again, realising as he does so that it's giving Warren the advantage. He's towering over him now, but it's still better. Ste isn't standing up for him. Fuck that.

"This better be good."

"It is," Ste says. "Come in."

Warren looks surprised by his audacity, but he does as he's told.

"Explain then. Explain why you left two groups of rotters for Hutchinson to deal will yesterday."

Ste speaks calmly, firmly. "I was ill. Get over it. I've taken exactly one sick day in the whole time I've been in the HVF, and that was yesterday."

Warren almost smiles.

"Someone's feeling bold today. About time, Ratboy."

" _Ste_. And you won't be punishing me, alright. Whatever little scheme you've cooked up with Danny to get me back for not being here, you can forget it. It's done."

"You don't say when things are done."

"I do now."

"Let me guess - you'll report me to the council otherwise?"

"I meant that."

Warren takes out his phone, reads aloud from it.

"If you aren't there then I'm going to the council and I'll tell them everything."

Ste's shaking but he nods, face set.

"What exactly are you going to tell them?"

"That you've been doing experiments on a rabid here for months."

Warren's eyes are bulging. He advances; Ste doesn't step back.

"Where is he?"

"He's not here," Warren says.

"Has he gone home?" Silence. "Warren? Is he back with his family? They'll still be looking for him. They'll be worried. And people at his school, the teachers, and the kids..." He's rambling, nervous. The longer he talks the more it seems possible that the boy will appear in front of him, and Ste will take him home.

But in the quiet a new idea festers and grows. A new truth.

"Take me to him." There's a shake to his voice, his eyes darting around the room. Ste would even accept the cage being back and him being locked inside, as long as it meant he was real and tangible.

But there's no sign of him in the room.

Ste moves past Warren and throws the door open before he can be stopped.

"Where is he?" He's close to shouting now, and panicked, moving rapidly from room to room along the hallway. He's met with the disgruntled sight of doctors as he interrupts them, and the startled rotters that are free of cover up mousse or contact lenses. They look more afraid of him than he is of them.

He can hear Warren following him, and he makes a few desperate attempts to grab his arm and pull him back. Ste runs faster, and he is shouting now, can feel his anger rising and it's giving him courage. He checks all the rooms, and he stays longer in some of them, checks the cupboards and corners because he doesn't trust Warren and Danny not to have kept the boy restrained in one of them, hands and feet bound and mouth gagged.

He puts his hands on the collar of a doctor's shirt, uses it to drag him closer.

"Where have you put him?"

They would have been in on this. Maybe not all of them, but some of them. They would have had to be, for Warren and Danny to do their tests. They would have known that the boy was being held here against his will.

There are hands on him now, forceful. They've called security on him.

"Get off me!"

He struggles, tries to hit them away, but they're stronger than him. He can't keep fighting, but he tries; struggles and wrestles with them as he's pulled down the hallway and out into the main foyer. He sees the receptionist press herself against the glass just to stare at him, a spectacle, and the people in the waiting area gasp and give him a wide birth.

He'll have bruises tomorrow, the way they're handling him.

He's shouting something over and over, but it sounds more like a chant: _He's a killer. He's a killer. He's a killer._

Then the ground swallows him up.

He groans at the feel of it as they fling him onto the hard concrete. His hands come up to protect himself, but his elbows pay the price; he's bleeding, he can tell. He can't move. He doesn't want to. The boy's dead, and it's his fault. He could have done something, stopped it, but now it's too late.

Just a kid. Just a teenager.

He closes his eyes, waits for darkness to come.

The world's spinning. He's being lifted up, carried. He wonders if the bleeding was worse than he thought and he's dead already. But this can't be heaven. A man like him doesn't go there.

He mumbles something, disorientated. The arms carrying him don't buckle, don't hesitate.

He hears the opening of a car door and when he opens his eyes he sees he's been placed on the back seat, still lying down. He doesn't call out, doesn't ask for help. He's safe here.

He closes his eyes again as Brendan begins to drive.


	29. Chapter 29

They drive for miles, until Ste no longer recognises the buildings that he can see from the window. He stays sprawled on the back seat. It's not an injury that keeps him from sitting up; apart from the scrapes to his elbows he can no longer feel where he landed onto the hard concrete. It's the humiliation of it all. Being dragged from the treatment centre in his uniform. Seeing the way that he'd been looked at. Brendan finding him on the ground.

Brendan must know that he isn't ready for talking. He doesn't even try to put the radio on like they usually do. The silence is soothing.

He doesn't ask where they're going, and when Brendan comes to an abrupt halt he wants to tell him to keep going. It's too soon. He wouldn't mind if they drove on all night, just the churn of the engine and the endless road spread before them.

Brendan keeps the engine running when he's stopped. He stares straight ahead, looks like he isn't actually focusing on anything in particular. It's courtesy; by pretending that he's looking at something else, Ste feels that some of the attention has been lifted off him.

"I drive out here sometimes," Brendan says, soft, low.

It's not the opening sentence that Ste had expected. He'd been waiting for an interrogation, and at first he can do little more than mumble "Oh. Right." It doesn't sound enough. Brendan never offers up this kind of information. It feels like a gift.

"What do you do out here?" Ste says, and he hopes that Brendan doesn't think he's just being polite by asking. That's not what this is. He wants to know.

"Just sit."

He tries to imagine it, but he can't. Brendan's all fire and life and noise. It's difficult to think of this kind of stillness being sustained.

Unless he brings Carmel with him.

Ste lifts himself up a little, just enough that he can see more of his surroundings. It's not unlike the places he's heard about; the sort of places where you could park a car and lock the doors, an invisible - but implied - do not disturb sign cordoning you off from the rest of the world.

He isn't sure he can see Carmel agreeing to that, but he's seen the way she looks at Brendan. Wanting someone can make you reckless.

Brendan must decide that it's okay to kill the engine now, because they're plunged into complete silence. It's isolated out here. Secluded. Soon it'll be dark enough that he won't be able to see anything out of the windows.

He should be afraid. What's frightening him is that he isn't. There's a difference, subtle but more noticeable the closer you look. This feeling he has that's making his skin feel like it's humming and his mouth dry, it isn't fear.

He feels sick with excitement. He might go mad with it.

He'd brought Amy to a place like this once. They'd needed privacy; she was living with Mike at the time and he couldn't bring her back to his place, not in the state it was in. She'd told him she didn't mind, but she would have. Half an hour in his old flat and he knew he would have lost her for good.

The proximity in the car had been a good and a bad thing. It was cramped and he bashed his head against the roof more than once, but it made him feel closer to her. They couldn't spread out like they could in a bed, and it meant that when they'd finished she stayed on his lap, and he held her until the sweat had dried off their skin.

He tries not to think about how he and Brendan would manage. The maneuvering it would take. What they'd do. How they'd do it.

He lies back down again until Brendan can't see him in his mirror.

He doesn't understand. He'd _hated_ him. He's sure he had. It's all because of that one stupid day, those few hours when Brendan had been ill and he'd had to take care of him. Ste had been defenseless. He hadn't expected it, didn't plan for it, and that had been his undoing. There was a dividing line: his relationship with Brendan before that moment, and his relationship with him afterwards. He's just got to remember how to step over the line again. How to go back.

He focuses, takes in the facts: Brendan had followed him to the treatment centre. He must have. It's not the first time he's done something like that. He makes himself concentrate on that, on how angry and disturbed he should be.

"You were waiting for me." His tone is accusing. _Good_. That's a start. "After work, when I was at the treatment centre. You were there."

"You only just realised? Who did you think you were in the car with all this time?"

"That's not what I mean. I mean, you must have been waiting there. Why?"

"Good thing I was."

"Stop avoiding the question," Ste says.

"Stop asking questions."

"I told you before to stop stalking me." _Stalking_. It's something dangerous, something that he could get Brendan done for. He knows that. He knows how much he should hate it.

"I was just..."

"What?" Ste wants ammunition. He needs a list of all the terrible things Brendan was planning on doing. First following him. Then kidnapping him. He wouldn't entirely mind if Brendan told him he was going to kill him out here in the middle of nowhere. It would stop him from thinking about the two of them in the back of this car, and what a man like Brendan could do to him.

 _Not a man. A thing._

"I was looking out for you, okay? I just wanted to look out for you."

He notices several things at once. The grip of Brendan's hands on the steering wheel, and how it looks vulnerable like the force of his touch could tear it from its holding. The way the trees blow in the breeze, like a storm is coming. How good those words sound, and the idea behind it. Being looked after.

"Okay," he says. Not _no_. Not _stop_. Okay. "Thank you."

He sees Brendan's reflection in the mirror. Sees the surprise there, which he quickly tries to hide.

"You're welcome."

It may be the most civil conversation they've ever had. It's strange. Ste doesn't know what comes next, but Brendan decides for him.

"You want to tell me what happened back there?"

Ste's tired. He's tired of secrets and he's tired of being on his own with this. It's what he's slowly realising. Amy, Leah, Lucas, Tony - it's not that having them in his life doesn't mean something. But they aren't involved in this. They can't help him. It's on him. All of it.

"I killed someone."

As he says it he feels a fresh wave of sickness hit him. He sits up, doubles up, and leans his forehead against the back of Brendan's seat. _He's killed someone._

"Who?" Brendan says. It scares Ste how casual it sounds.

"There was this boy, and..." He's sure that if Danny could hear this conversation then he'd be dead. For all Ste knows Danny's followed him out here, and it doesn't seem outside the realm of possibility that he's bugged Brendan's car. But it feels good, _so good_ , to finally be telling someone.

Not someone - Brendan.

"Steven," Brendan says, and Ste realises that he's trying to encourage him. Give him the strength that he needs.

"He had taken something, and... he turned rabid. He told Warren that you were the one who gave him the drugs. I don't know what it was, but... Warren did these tests, and he said that whatever you gave him made him act like that."

He doesn't know if he's making any sense, but Brendan looks like he's following him carefully, twisting round in his seat to look at him.

"I told Warren that he had to let him go. He kept him in the treatment centre, kept him locked up there. It was months and the boy's family didn't even know. He was just a teenager, Brendan."

"You said you killed him. Why?"

"When I went back there today, it was to tell Warren to let him go. I said that I'd tell everyone if he didn't, that I'd go to the council. But he wasn't there. The boy, he wasn't..."

He makes a noise; a strangled cry.

Brendan's voice is soft when he speaks again.

"That doesn't mean you killed him, Steven. You didn't touch him. You didn't see a body."

"He isn't a body." He's shouting now. "And I _know_ , okay? I know he's dead." He thinks he knew days ago, when he'd first heard about the boy. He knew that he would never be able to walk free. "And that's why it's my fault. I didn't do anything. I could have stopped it, but I didn't."

He can taste salt on his lips. He rubs at his eyes discreetly.

"Listen to me, okay? Listen."

Ste shakes his head.

" _Listen_."

"Whatever you're going to say, right -"

"This is not your fault."

Another shake of his head, and then a frantic attempt at escape when he feels Brendan's hands on him, trying to get him to look at him. Ste opens the car door and gets out, but there's nowhere to run to, nowhere familiar. He doesn't know where Brendan's brought him; they're near a wood that he doesn't recognise, and soon it'll be pitch black. He reaches round to his pocket, feels the weight of his gun. He could chance it.

But the hands that restrain him are strong and he feels himself giving in to them. Moving closer instead of running away.

He shoves Brendan square in the chest, watches as he staggers back from the shock of it. He recovers, and he's ready for the next shove. He barely moves.

"Is it your fault then?"

He needs to keep hitting him. He needs to because if he doesn't then he might try and kiss him.

"You were the one who gave him the drugs in the first place."

"They weren't mine, Steven."

"Stop lying." He shouts it so loudly that it feels like the whole world must hear. "Just tell me."

He's going to keep lying. Ste can see it, can see how easy this is for him, how telling the truth has become unknown.

Only Brendan must be as tired as he is.

He exhales, shrugs his shoulder, and Ste can read it. _What do you expect?_ That's what it is. _What do you expect from a rotter? From me?_

"Fine," he says. "It was me. I gave him the drugs."

Ste waits. Waits for this to change everything. Waits for these feelings, this _poison_ , to fade.

He was wrong about this being a sickness. It isn't something outside of himself, something that's happened to him. _He's_ the one who's sick. He must be, because it isn't fading.

"You're a drug dealer." He takes it in, allows himself to believe it now. When Brendan had denied it it had allowed Ste to believe that there could be a catch. That there was a possibility, however small, that it wasn't true. "I can't have drugs around my kids, Brendan."

He can see Brendan looking at him. Frowning. Out of all the things he could have said, all the millions of reasons why Brendan shouldn't be dealing, and he's brought the kids up. The kids, who Brendan isn't even involved with. Ste's life, that Brendan isn't involved with.

"Were you taking them? Back when you were alive, were you..." It sounds like safer territory, and he hopes Brendan will think so too, but Ste knows it's not. It hurts to think about a human Brendan - any Brendan - doing that. "Don't tell me that..." Something's just occurred to him; he feels like he's been punched. "Did you die because -"

"No, Steven. No, of course not!"

 _Brendan taking something. Overdosing. Never waking up._

"How am I supposed to know? You haven't told me what happened."

Brendan doesn't rise to the bait. He says nothing.

"So you didn't take anything?"

"I don't take drugs," Brendan says. "Not now, not then."

"Then why become a dealer? How could you do that? Give it to that kid, for him to..."

"It was his choice."

"His choice that you helped him make. Do you know how low that is?"

"Leave then."

Ste blinks, taken aback.

"What?"

"Walk away." Brendan says.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because..."

 _Because I can't. I can't even though I should._

"We're in the middle of nowhere," Ste says. "How am I meant to get home?"

He's worried that Brendan's going to offer to drive him back now. He's not ready for that yet. He isn't prepared for this to be over.

"You really think I'm low?" Brendan already sounds like he's waiting for the answer to be _yes._

"I said what you did was low. Not you."

"There's a difference?"

"Yes. And maybe if you explain, if you tell me why you did it -"

"Does there have to be a reason?" Brendan says. "What if I just felt like it?"

"So you just woke up one morning and decided that you were going to become a drug dealer?"

"Why not? People just do things all the time, Steven. Because they want to. Because they can."

Ste doesn't know if he's grasping and grasping at some possible explanation, some logical conclusion that will make what Brendan did just a little bit okay, but he isn't convinced.

"I'll be here. If you ever want to tell me, if you ever want to... I'm here."

It might still be wishful thinking, but he's sure that he hears Brendan mutter _okay_.

::::::

The rain's beating hard against the windows, so loud that it sounds like hail. Moving seems impossible; even to drive in this weather would be dangerous.

"What do you really do out here?"

It helps that he can't see Brendan's face from where he's lying on the back seat. He feels like he could him almost ask him anything like this, cut off as they are. The rest of the world feels remote. It's still out there somewhere; it just doesn't have anything to do with them.

"I told you, sometimes I just sit. For hours." There's a gap, and Ste has the strangest feeling that Brendan thinks it's about to be filled by the sound of Ste laughing. It isn't.

"I get that."

He's aware of Brendan's body turning almost imperceptibly towards him.

"I get needing that space. Sometimes even when I'm at home, I can't think."

Now it's Ste waiting for the laughter, and a wry comment: _Like you ever think the rest of the time._ He waits long enough to be sure that it's not going to come.

"I love the kids." He feels the need to defend himself, even though Brendan hasn't said anything. Even though Brendan's own kids are miles away in Ireland. "I do, right, but sometimes it's not until I'm completely alone that I can just think."

"About what?"

"I don't even know." He tries to explain. "Just... Amy and the kids, they're everything, but sometimes..." He wonders whether he can really say this. It's something that's only ever existed in his mind until now. It's felt shameful. "Sometimes there are all these things that all these people want you to be, and I just... I just don't think I can."

"Don't think you can what?"

" _Be_ them. Or do them, or..." He's getting in a muddle, but he thinks Brendan understands. "I thought Amy wanted me to get a job, a proper job, but now that I have one..." He thinks of all the times she's pleaded with him to find something else, and how he's wanted to tell her that without the HVF, he doesn't know what he could do. He's got as far as the idea of escape, but he doesn't know what's beyond that. What he'll be when all of this ends.

There's something else. Something that he's thought about for months, but he's always used distractions to push it aside. Maybe it's being stuck in this car, away from everything else and with nothing but the sound of the rain around him, but it feels possible. Talking feels possible.

"You know what you said once."

"Might have to narrow it down," Brendan says, and Ste laughs. It helps to settle his nerves.

"About me being lonely." He says it quickly, _no big deal,_ but he doesn't think he fools Brendan. Ste can still remember how he'd felt when Brendan had said it. The humiliation of it.

The truth of it.

"You were right. I am. I have been for a while." _A while_ being as far back as he can remember. _A while_ being always. "And I think you are too."

The rain's getting worse. It sounds like bullets now. There's a tree right next to the car; if it fell it could crush them both. They could be trapped. They could die together.

"I take off my lenses when I'm here."

Ste sits up a little. It doesn't seem so scary any more, being able to see Brendan better.

"And the mousse?"

Brendan nods.

"Why here though? Why not just do it at home? Or does Cheryl not like it?" He can't imagine her not letting him.

"She doesn't care. But I'm inside then, you know? _Inside_. I like it out here. Even when I'm in the car, I'm still..."

"You're still outside," Ste finishes. No hiding.

"No hiding," Brendan says, and Ste hopes he doesn't see the startled look which he quickly tries to cover.

"Why tell me all that?"

"You're here, aren't you."

"So it could have been anyone?" Anyone that he picked up in his car. Anyone that he drove out into the middle of nowhere with. Anyone, anyone, anyone.

"No."

Ste's not sure if he's heard him right. He wants to ask him to repeat it, to make it real, but he doesn't dare. Even if it's only his imagination, he'll take it.

"Can I...?" Ste gestures towards the seat in the front next to Brendan.

"You sure you don't want to lie down?"

"No, I'm alright now." He feels faintly foolish for what he's done, for lying in the back like some damsel in distress. His uniform and his gun only draws attention to it, to how wrong this should feel.

 _Should_ feel, because he doesn't feel it. It's nice to surrender control.

He tries to climb into the front seat, but it's no good; he's all gangly limbs and clumsiness. He gets too close to Brendan, their arms brushing, and he abandons the attempt.

"I'll go round," he says, hand on the car door.

"You'll get soaked."

"I'll only be a second."

He underestimated the downpour. Even in the short journey to the front seat he can feel his hair growing wet and the coldness get him in its grip. He rubs his arms when he's safely inside again, stretches his legs out.

"This reminds me..." He stops abruptly.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, come on," Brendan says.

"Remember when I was at your house that time? And it was raining, and Cheryl made us tea." He's aware that he's talking about this like it was years ago, not months. Only he doesn't know if Brendan clings onto memories like Ste's started to do. Everything seems different to him now, viewed through a different lens. It's dangerous; where he'd once vividly recalled Brendan's anger and threats and the way he'd pushed him against the wall, he now remembers other things. The feel of Brendan's vest against his skin. Cheryl calling him _Bren_. The biscuit-dunking story and how personal it had felt.

"I remember."

"I borrowed something of yours. It was a..." He pretends he's thinking for a moment, pretends that the word isn't on the tip of his tongue and permanently in his head, where it will stay. "A vest."

"Which you lost."

He doesn't think he hears scepticism in Brendan's voice.

"You lost my shirt."

The _No, Steven, I didn't_ that he's hoping for doesn't come. Neither does _I was lying_ or _It turned up somewhere._ It's gone; gone because Brendan didn't care enough to look after it.

"So, what, every time it rains you're going to think about that day?" Brendan says, and it sounds like he's joking but Ste gets a sinking feeling at the idea. At the possible truth of it. At how pathetic it is.

"No," is what he says, because he can't say yes. He can say anything but yes. "I just remembered, that's all." He's quiet for a second. He's cold, the rain having soaked through his uniform, and he can see in the mirror in front of him that the strands of his hair are plastered to his forehead, sticking to it. It's not the first time that he's felt like he's coming undone while Brendan is immaculate next to him.

"You pretended to eat," Ste says softly. "Even then, you... the tea and the biscuits."

"Cheryl doesn't know. I told you."

"I know, I'm not having a go."

"Then what?"

It just hurts, is all. It hurts to remember. It hurts to look back at every time Brendan's ever lied, ever done something to cover his tracks and ended up in pain because of it.

"Would you have told me? If I hadn't found you in the bathroom, would you have said anything? Ever?"

Brendan looks at him.

"Would you have told me about being thrown out of the treatment centre if I hadn't found you?"

Ste doesn't point out that the likelihood of Brendan simply _finding_ him is unconvincing. Followed is more accurate.

"That's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

"No. This is hurting you."

"And what would have happened to you if I hadn't come along?" Brendan's animated now. Defiant. "You think Warren would have let you just walk away after that?"

"He wasn't the one chucking me out."

"No, but I'm guessing he gave the orders."

Ste's silent. He won't lie, but he won't confirm it either. It's too humiliating.

"He won't touch me. He can't. He's not allowed." It sounds hollow. _Not allowed_ has nothing to do with it. _Not allowed_ won't build a wall around him and keep him safe.

"No. He won't."

It's something about the way he says it. It's something about the way he's still gripping the steering wheel, even though the car's at a standstill. It's something about the way he's staring straight ahead, like he isn't even in the car any more. Like he's thinking of something else, something away from here.

"Brendan..."

Brendan doesn't appear to have heard him.

"You won't, like... you know..." How can Brendan know when he doesn't? He hasn't told him anything, but Ste feels it now. He feels _uneasy_. "You won't do anything, will you? Something stupid, or..." He know it's impossible, and he wonders for a moment if it's all a sick fantasy, this idea that Brendan would do something for him. He can't believe that he could be the kind of person who would want that. He can't believe that it would give him gratification to know that Brendan would go to those lengths to keep him from getting hurt.

"I'm not going to do anything, Steven."

Ste nods, clears his throat, but it still sounds ragged.

"Course not."

"Just like you aren't."

"What?" Ste says.

"With Cheryl."

"She has to know one day. She won't care. The longer you tell this lie the worse it's going to get. But if you tell her now -"

"No."

"Are you embarrassed?" He's angry at the idea of it; angry that Brendan could ever feel like that. "Do you think you're less of a person or something?"

"I'm not a person, am I? That's what you think." His eyes are cold.

"I don't know what I think."

He fiddles with the sleeves of his uniform, feeling swamped by the thing. He remembers how Warren had laughed at him the day he'd first tried it on: _We don't make a scrawny size, sorry Ratboy._

Ste should have run away then.

"I can't watch you at lunch and not say anything."

"You promised."

"I _can't_ , Brendan. I saw you today. saw you go to the bathroom, and I..." He can't finish his sentence. It doesn't matter that he hadn't seen what had happened in there. He knows now, and there's no undoing that.

"Why does it bother you? Just look away."

Ste laughs. It's ridiculous and he doesn't understand how Brendan can't see that.

"Look away?" He laughs again, because he might scream otherwise. He might say something stupid. He might kiss him. "Could you just _look away_? If something like that was happening to someone that you..."

"Someone that you what?"

He can hear it in Brendan's voice, confusion and something else that Ste can't identify.

"Someone that you know." It's not what he meant, not even close, but it fits enough that it won't all go up in flames. It saves him, but then it doesn't because Brendan's still looking at him and Ste's eyes are sliding down towards his lips, and he's not going to be able to stop himself any more. "I want to go home."

"Steven -"

"Take me home. Now."

He's panicking, spiralling, and he's strongly considering walking back all the way if he has to. Being lost out here seems like nothing compared to what he could do if he stays in this car.

Brendan starts the engine and Ste rolls the window down, switches on the radio and lets the song that plays fill the silence.

 _When my time comes around_

 _Lay me gently in the cold dark earth_

 _No grave can hold my body down_

 _I'll crawl home to her_

::::::

Brendan makes sure to park far enough away that Amy won't be able to see them if she looks outside.

"Here we are." He waits, expectant, clearly thinking that Ste's going to get straight out of the car.

Ste undoes his seatbelt, but he doesn't move.

"Sorry about before." He feels embarrassed about it now; the urgency, the complete lack of an explanation.

"It's okay."

"It wasn't because of you." Not in the way that Brendan must be thinking. "Amy will be worrying about me, that's all."

"You didn't text her?"

"No." He doesn't admit that he'd forgotten to. That he'd forgotten everything else that wasn't Brendan. "Brendan. There's something I've been wondering."

"Only something?"

Millions of things, actually. Millions of questions that he'd ask if he thought Brendan would be honest with him.

"Veronica."

He watches Brendan's eyes, Brendan's mouth; the jaw that's rigid now, the face that's set.

"You've never told me exactly how you met. How you know each other."

"I thought you'd ask her. Seeing as how you two are so... close."

"We were mates, that's all."

"So were we," Brendan says, and he smiles the kind of smile that's Ste seen from him before: triumphant, smug, final: _I've won._

"The kind of mates that deal drugs for each other?"

 _The kind of mates that sleep together?_

"You don't like to let things go, do you?"

"No," Ste says, and Brendan laughs. "What?"

"I admire your persistence, boy."

"I'm not a boy."

"Why are you sulking then?"

"I'm not _sulking_."

"Tell that to your bottom lip," Brendan says, and Ste must look even more annoyed because Brendan only laughs harder. "Okay then, _Steven_. Better?"

"I've told you, it's Ste. No one calls me Steven except Amy if she's being mardy. And Terry, but..." It slips out before he can filter himself.

"Terry?"

"My step-dad," he says, because no change of subject seems natural enough. Everything would only lead back to this.

It's strange to say his name. He never talks about him with anyone but Amy, and he tries to avoid it as much as possible these days.

"Ste."

Ste turns to face him. It's the distraction that he needs; it makes him smile.

"What did you just say?"

" _Ste_. It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

He doesn't believe for a second that Brendan will stop calling him Steven, but he admires him for trying.

"I changed my mind." He's still smiling. Sometimes it's hard to stop when he's with Brendan. "It just sounds wrong from you."

Brendan smiles back at him. Neither of them look away for a moment.

"Thank you, Brendan."

"For what?"

"For today. I couldn't have gone home after that. I needed... I needed something, and..."

He needed him. And he was there.

"Any time."

It doesn't sound like one of those things that people just say. It doesn't sound like an empty promise.

It sounds like an oath.

::::::

Brendan doesn't drive away until Ste's inside the flat.

He hadn't realised how late it was. The kids are in bed and Amy only stays awake long enough to see him come through the front door.

He gets changed quickly, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. His eyes look bright, and he's pink-cheeked like he's spent the day outdoors instead of inside a car.

He's in bed when his phone vibrates, its screen lighting up.

He knows it's impossible. He knows that Brendan can't have his number, but everything else has been impossible too, and it's still happened: Brendan showing up out of thin air time and time again. Knowing about the creaking floorboard despite the locks in the flat. And today, being there exactly when Ste needed him the most.

He grabs his phone, and he already knows that he can't not reply.

 _Rae_.

Her name appears on the screen, and for the first time in his life he hates her. He hates that she gave him hope, that she made him imagine what it could be like even though she couldn't have possibly known.

 _Hi stranger. How are you?_

No kisses. He's not surprised, given how they left things. He wonders if this is some kind of mistake, that her message was meant for someone else.

He almost deletes it, but tentatively he begins to write a message. He'd been the one who'd fucked things up, and the very least she deserves is for him to try. And he's remembering now; remembering how he'd spent weeks missing her and trying to gather the courage to apologise, only what he'd done hadn't been something concrete. He hadn't cheated. He hadn't lied. But still he'd come away from it feeling like he'd been in the wrong. That she'd given up on him because of something he'd done.

It's late. Maybe that's what this is; she's awake like he is too, and it's during these hours when it becomes harder to pretend that you have everything you want. He wishes he could know what's made her think of him now, years later, when he'd been sure that he'd been erased from her life completely.

 _Hi. I've been thinking about you._

He goes back, deletes it. He knows there's no way of her finding out, but he thinks back to how he'd used her body to try and make him come. How it had failed. What he'd had to think about instead.

 _Hi. I'm good thanks. Same as always._

He deletes _same as always_. It's both depressingly true and not true enough. So little in his life has changed since Rae last saw him. Except one thing. The thing that's changed everything.

 _How are you? Are you still DJ'ing?_

He includes that last part to show that he's not as insensitive as she might have thought he was. He did pay attention.

He thinks he'll have to wait till tomorrow to get a reply. He's had this with girls before, this belief that some of them have that they have to wait a certain amount of time until they get in contact again.

He doesn't manage to put his phone back on his bedside table before another message comes through.

 _I'm good - I've got a nightclub booking coming up._

He smiles. This is what she'd always wanted.

 _That's amazing! Well done._

 _Thanks. It's close to you actually. The Loft._

It hadn't been long ago that he hadn't thought much about The Loft at all. It had just been a club. He'd seen it on his way to work and whenever he'd passed through the village. Now it's one of _those_ places. The kind of place that he can no longer go to without the onslaught of memories. Watching Brendan with Carmel, and then being the one with him. Drinks being bought. The darkness of the place until the lights would strobe over them, and the way that Brendan was lit up by them. Illuminated.

It takes him a little longer to reply this time.

 _That's really brilliant. I'm sure you'll be great._

Her reply doesn't come through so quickly either. He wonders if she's distracted by something, or whether she's like him and she doesn't know what to say next.

 _I was wondering if you wanted to come and watch me?_

He doesn't know what to do. If he takes too long to send a message back then she'll think that he's ignoring her, that he's trying to find some excuse. But he's wary of being too hasty. He needs to think about this. Seeing her again doesn't feel like something he can rush into, and he isn't sure what this is. A date? Or a desperate invite because the rest of her mates have bailed on her?

But that wouldn't make her get in contact again after all this time.

 _Sure. I'd love to._

He's sent it now. It's too late.

 _Thanks Ste! It's Friday night. Come around 10? xx_

The kisses don't go unnoticed.

 _See you then. x_

He switches his phone off. It would be all too easy to go back on his decision if he didn't, and he can't do that to her. He knows how much getting these bookings means to her, how hard she's worked, and it must have taken guts for her to ask him. He'd assumed that she'd deleted his number after they'd stopped seeing each other.

He lies back in bed. He'd wanted to call her after everything with Veronica had happened, but he never had. This could be his chance. Amy had liked her well enough. She hadn't been involved much in the kids' lives - Ste and Amy had agreed that that would only ever happen if the relationship was serious. But Rae seemed to like kids. It was a good fit then, and it would be a good fit now. It could work.

It didn't matter that he hadn't felt with Rae in months what he'd felt with Brendan in a single evening in his car. That wasn't a good kind of feeling. It was terror at what he felt and the knowledge that he was tied to this person who wasn't really a person. It was knowing what he'd already done to protect him, and what he would keep on doing. It was being more out of control than he'd ever been in his whole life.

He gets out of bed, crosses over to his window and slowly draws back the curtains a little, just enough that he has a small glimpse of what's outside. He doesn't know if it's paranoia or if it's the years he's spent in the Human Volenteer Force that's made him have this instinct, this feeling that he's being watched. He knows he should feel scared; it could be Danny or Warren out there. It could be a rabid lying in wait.

He draws the curtains completely. It's dark but he can see just enough to know that there's nothing _to_ see. There's no one there. Brendan's car is gone. There's no sign of headlights. He would never stay out there all night, watching and keeping guard just in case Warren paid him a visit.

But maybe it's the thought of it. The thought that he could be out there somewhere, protecting him. Ste's gun is in its place. He knows where the bullets are if he needs them. Years he's known, but only now as he gets back into bed and imagines Brendan keeping watch, does he feel safe.


	30. Chapter 30

He's had the kind of sleep that leaves pillow marks on his face. The kind of sleep that makes him feel worse at first instead of better, that creates a pressure in his head that feels like he's been torn from a place far away, and his eyes take a moment to adjust to the light and his room. He's got pins and needles. He stretches a little, waits for it to pass, and when he can move again he's straight over to the window, parting the curtains and looking out.

He still can't see anything. Not the car he's looking for or a hint of a sudden movement. Not a figure standing there, staring up at his window, watching. Protecting.

It doesn't matter that he doesn't see it. He knows.

He looks in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth. He looks rested. He looks _well_.

::::::

No phone calls. No voicemails. No messages. Nothing in days. He's beginning to wonder if Warren's forgotten about him. It's a waiting game, and Ste knows that he's bound to lose eventually but he's allowing himself to enjoy it while it lasts. He'd expected a barrage of threats after what had happened at the treatment centre, and a particularly long meeting with Danny in the basement.

The silence stretches on, and he lets it. He's in no hurry to see it end.

::::::

The next two days pass in a blur.

It's menial work that the rotters are doing, but the grumbling is kept to a minimum. Ste isn't sure that it's because they've adjusted to the long days and the low pay; they're just more comfortable with each other, that's all. It isn't just Jacqui and Rhys. There's something about all of them. They're easy together, and neither him or Tony try to put a stop to the laughter and the talking. He knows it's making them slower in their work, but he doesn't want to say anything. It's a sharp change from the early weeks when they'd ploughed on with the work in relative silence, still very much strangers thrown together.

There's still one exception.

It's easier to watch Brendan when he's alone. Easier to keep track of him when he's lagging behind the others as he walks. Easier to hear his snide remarks and sarcasm when he's trailing away, separate.

It makes taking his eyes off him almost impossible. It makes not dreaming impossible.

It begins with something small. A scenario: they're out together at The Loft, and Brendan's had one too many drinks, because in Ste's dreams he can drink and eat without pain. He lets Ste kiss him. It doesn't matter what happens after that - the inevitable disgust and regret and rejection - because Ste stops it from going that far. He cuts it off before it's ended, when they're still at the middle. The happy middle, where their lips are pressed together and Ste's breathing him in and Brendan's hands are in his hair.

Another scenario: Brendan's bisexual. All this time that Ste's been wanting him - and it feels like for ever - Brendan's been wanting him back. All the times that Ste's been looking at him, Brendan's eyes have been on him. The restless nights that he's spent thinking and fantasising and wanting, Brendan's been lying awake too.

Ste still knows only snatches of information about Brendan's past. He doesn't know if he's been involved with men before. The idea doesn't give Ste the hope and comfort that it should. It makes his gut twist. It makes him want to break something.

A final scenario: Brendan doesn't want him. He's never wanted him. At most he doesn't mind spending time with him, because Ste's the only one who would ever go on these drives, would ever let Brendan take him out into the middle of nowhere. The only one who would ever go to get new contact lenses and cover up mousse. The only one who would ever lie for him. But that's all it is. He's slept with Carmel; he could love Carmel. Their holiday will still go ahead, and if Brendan knew the ideas he was having, the _wishes_ , then he'd never talk to him again. He'd never want to have anything to do with him.

There is no good scenario.

He doesn't stop it though. There's a relief that comes from knowing that he's seeing Rae soon. He reads her messages over and over and he even manages to find some old photos of them together that he thought were dead and buried. He's smiling in them, has his arm around her. They look _right_. He isn't sure how he and Brendan would look in a photograph together. He remembers a time when he hadn't even been sure that rotters _could_ take photos, before he'd seen one of Sarah. He can't imagine Brendan smiling for a picture, and there's no use in imagining Brendan putting his arm around him; even his imagination doesn't allow him to be that deluded.

But now that there's a strong chance that he's going to get back together with Rae, it feels safer to do everything else. To let himself hum along to the radio in Brendan's car. He even tries to sing a couple of times - _try_ being the word, according to Brendan - and when their hands brush when they both go for the volume button at the same time, Ste doesn't flinch back. He keeps his hand there, waits for Brendan to remove his. He lets himself feel it.

He lets himself think about Brendan when he's in the shower. It isn't difficult to imagine that he's behind him, touching him, the water running over both their backs and their chests, soapy fingers tracing over Ste's spine. He doesn't stop when he goes to bed; thinks about him as he fumbles a hand into his pyjama bottoms and works on his dick until it's stiff. He lets himself come this time. Lets Brendan make him come. He isn't sure if he's ever come that hard; not on his own or inside a girl. Not ever.

He doesn't let shame creep in this time; he'll have a girlfriend again by tomorrow evening, and that's all he'll be focusing on. It'll be her body he'll be touching. Her body that he'll be dreaming of.

He gets out of bed and checks in his drawers, his fingers securing around the vest. He'll get rid of it on the weekend. He can't return it to Brendan; he doesn't think he can invent a story about how he'd suddenly found it again. And he won't go back to that house.

He'll throw it away. Not in the flat, not where Amy could find it. It doesn't matter if she doesn't question him about it; he won't chance it. He'll find a bin outside, far enough away, and he'll bury it. He'll push it down until it disappears.

::::::

"Where are you off to?"

He's come into the kitchen where Amy's putting away the dishes from their dinner. He's read the kids a story and given them a kiss goodnight. He had been glad the only light came from a small lamp in the corner of their room. They're used to seeing him in his uniform, and they might have said something if they'd seen him dressed in his own clothes. It puts them on edge. They never say that, but he's seen the way Leah's eyes scan over him before, questioning, wondering. He's seen the way that Lucas chews at the corner of his nails. _He's learnt that from you._ That's what Amy's told him.

They know how things are in the village. They know that his uniform means something. Means that he's part of something. Without it he's out there on his own. He used to think they could never know, were too young to understand the dangers out there. Were too young to realise that there are things out there who want to hurt him, want to hurt _them_ , and that the police can't do anything about them. He grew up in a world where the bad guys could be arrested and sent down and stopped. They didn't.

He knows now. Knows that being young has nothing to do with it. It had been an insult to them to think that they wouldn't be able to understand.

"Just into town. Thought I'd pick up some things at the shops."

He doesn't plan to stay long. He'll just have a few drinks and a quick word with Rae, that's all. Congratulate her on booking the gig and listen to some of her set. Then he'll be back before Amy starts to notice.

"You don't usually go to the shops dressed like that," Amy says.

He hoped she wouldn't notice. He hasn't done anything special; just applied a bit of product to his hair and put on a fresh polo shirt. He'd debated on something a bit smarter, but he wasn't sure it was appropriate for a catch up with his ex. He didn't want Rae to think he'd gone to too much effort. Didn't want her to think that he was nervous like he'd been with Veronica.

It makes Ste wonder what he must look like ordinarily. If his HVF uniform is so badly worn that even making a minimal effort has the power to transform him.

"I won't be long."

She doesn't draw attention to the complete avoidance of her questioning, but she's not letting him go that easily. She opens the cupboard doors, looks into them.

"We're not even out of anything."

"So I have to get permission to leave my own house now, do I?"

She isn't scared by him snapping. That's something. He still doesn't like it though; doesn't like how she's looking at him, shocked. Doesn't like how he still has the ability to shock her.

"Excuse me?"

He could find it funny, if they weren't in the situation they were in. The words, the tone, the hands on her hips routine. It's how she gets with the kids sometimes. Only the kids have an excuse that he doesn't.

"Sorry Ste, but we can't afford to spend money on things we don't need."

"I know, I wasn't -"

"We don't know what we're going to do when you leave that place."

It's what she calls it sometimes. _That place._

"I told you, I'll get a job."

"But we don't know what it's going to be. I'm not having a go, alright. I know you'll get something."

He wishes he could know that too.

"We have to be careful though, don't we?" she says. "And..."

"And what?"

"I don't like it when you go out there alone."

He wants to hold her.

"Ames. I'll take the gun if you want." He's not sure how wise that is in a crowded nightclub, but he's done it before and he'll do it again if it'll make her feel better.

"You can't take it everywhere. And you know how much I hate that thing."

"Nothing's going to happen."

"Don't say that."

"Why not?" He had thought that would make her feel better; the kind of thing that Mike must have told her when she was a child. _Nothing bad will happen. Everything will be okay._

A lie, but a necessary one.

"It just makes me think that something will. You keep saying it, and... I don't know, it makes me feel worse. I know you're trying to make things better, but I don't want you to try. I just want them to _be_ better."

"Come here," he says, but she shakes her head. She looks like she might cry if he tries to get any closer. He tries to think of something, anything to stop that from happening. "Want to hear something funny?"

"Go on. I could do with a laugh."

"I'm not going to the shops." He doesn't add _I lied,_ because he's not sure she'd find anything he plans on saying amusing after that. "I'm going to meet Rae."

"Rae? Blonde Rae?"

"No, ginger Rae. Yes, blonde Rae. Who else?" Turns out he's the only one who's laughing now. He understands her reaction though; he hadn't heard from Rae in years, and he knew that Amy had drawn a line under it all too, had assumed that Rae would never contact either of them again.

"What did she say?"

"Just that she's booked herself a set at The Loft. She was always into DJ'ing, remember? She sort of invited me along."

"Sort of?"

"Well... she did."

"Sounds like a date to me," Amy says.

"No."

"Ste, it's been ages. _Years_. And then she contacts you out of the blue. Unless you two have been...?"

"No, course not. I would have told you."

"You didn't tell me much about this other person. This internet date."

He turns away, gets a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water from the sink.

"Yeah, that's because it was awful."

"You never told me what happened."

There's no version of the truth that he can present to her. Not Veronica's hand on his dick in the darkness of the cinema. Not the quick dash to get condoms. Not going back to her place and what happened there. Not the name that had flashed up on her phone screen: _Brendan_. Not being thrown out of her house and never hearing from her again.

"It just didn't work out, that's all."

"I guess we know why."

He knows it can't be that. It can't be Brendan that she means. That's the part of his mind that's on his side, that keeps him clear-headed, that tells him that she's talking about something else.

Only the other part is going _Brendan. Brendan. Brendan._

He lets her keep talking while he keeps it all inside.

"Maybe all this with Rae was meant to happen. You two didn't really get closure, did you? It just kind of... ended. At least this way you get to see her again, see if there's still anything there."

"I guess."

"Ste?"

"Mm?"

"You didn't have to keep it from me." Her voice is quiet, but she isn't looking away. She isn't trying to distract herself like he did, although there's plenty in the kitchen to do that with: dirty dishes that need putting away, clothes for washing that are hanging over the back of a chair. "I can deal with it. This isn't like before, when we first started... you know, seeing other people. I liked Rae, you know I did."

"I know."

"And she accepted it all, didn't she. The kids, and you living here with me still. She didn't flip out."

"No."

"So why hide it?"

He shrugs. He isn't sure he can answer.

"Do you think you don't deserve to be happy?"

He wishes she wouldn't do this now. He can feel himself beginning to weaken, to look back instead of forward. And he really fucking needs to look forward right now.

"You do."

She knows not to push it. If he wasn't about to go out of the door he could face it, but he can't go into a packed club looking like that. Rae might have missed years of his life, but she knows him well enough to see when something's wrong.

"Thanks. I better..."

She nods.

"Have a good time. Good luck with Rae."

::::::

There's a queue that stretches down the street. It moves at a steady place and Ste's ready with his ID; he's grown used to being mistaken for a teenager and sure enough he's asked. The bouncer seems to take longer than necessary, looking back and forth between Ste and his picture before he waves him in.

He's early. There's no sign of Rae so he heads for the bar, orders a pint. It's the first time he's been here alone. It hadn't felt that way when he'd been following Carmel and Brendan. He'd had a purpose then. He wonders now if he hadn't felt alone because somewhere inside of him he'd felt that Brendan knew he was there watching him the entire time. They hadn't come together, hadn't drank together, hadn't talked together, but they'd _been_ there together. That's what it had felt like. Together, the whole time.

He looks around the club. There are groups of friends drinking, dancing. There are couples. There are people hooking up. All of them a man and a woman. He searches, but there's nothing else. He doesn't see any girls kissing. He doesn't see any men kissing, but there's plenty of everything else. He has to move out of the way to avoid a couple from crashing into him, so unaware are they with their eyes closed and their lips glued together. Ste stares at them, fascinated. Is he faking it, the guy? Is he putting on a show and thinking about the guy at work, or the guy down the hallway to him that he shares a flat with? And that girl, is she kissing him because she wants to kiss him? Or would she rather be with her friend who only sees her as that, a _friend_ , or the girl she's tentatively been talking to online?

He wonders if the whole world is faking it.

He orders another pint, downs it. He can feel the froth from the beer on his upper lip, and he lets it stay there for a second before he wipes it away. Brendan had done that once, except he hadn't used his hand to wipe it away. Ste had seen a pink, darting tongue. He knows how much that one drink would have cost Brendan, knows that he would have been throwing up in the bathroom afterwards, but he can't let himself regret this one. It's an image that sticks in his mind, when at the time it had seemed like nothing. A moment that would fade, not burn brighter with every day that passes.

"Another one please," he says to the barman, finally managing to cut through the crowd that have gathered ordering drinks.

This time he lets the froth linger.

::::::

He knows when Rae's set has started. There's a distinct change in music, and he recognises some of the songs she's choosing. There are remixes that she used to play for him, but it doesn't seem to matter that they're old. The crowd lap it up, and the atmosphere changes. More people are dancing now, even the ones who look like they'd rather be on the sidelines with their drinks.

She looks good. He's got a clear view of her from where he's standing, and she's not looking at him but it doesn't matter. She's nodding her head in time to the music, concentrating, and she's wearing some sort of sparkly top that seems to glitter as the artificial lights beam over her. He hadn't forgotten how pretty she is, but still it seems to surprise him, and he knows that she's all anyone could ever want.

He scans the crowd for any sign of someone waiting. A man, waiting. A boyfriend, proud, here to support her. It could be anyone. He waits to feel competitive, possessive. Jealous.

He waits.

There's a song that she plays. He knows it but he can't identify why it's important, why it resonates with him. Then he gets it: it had played when they'd kissed. Their second kiss. They'd been at a club not unlike this, years back when Justin had suggested a night out. It had come on and it had played on and on, so loud that Ste had still felt a ringing in his ears even as he'd got home and climbed into bed.

It could be a coincidence. Or it could mean something. She must know that he's out here, that he's listening.

He smiles in case she looks up, looks right at him. He smiles but it begins to hurt after a while; a plan of a smile. A thought: _I will smile_ , and then a need that his facial muscles will follow.

He cheers along with the rest of them when she's finished for the night. It's only been an hour and a half but he knows that it's been a success, that they'll remember this. Remember her. She's a natural with the crowd, and he sees all of what she's wearing now when she weaves through all the people. A skirt, and high heels, and he knows that as he's looking so is everyone else.

"Rae." He's calling, following her, can see her looking for him too. He can see the disappointment settling in when she thinks he's not here, and then the palpable relief when she spots him. He doesn't know whether to kiss her or hug her or just stand here, but she makes the decision for him, throws her arms around him and clings on.

"I'm so glad you came."

He can see the way that he's being looked at. He's assumed to be the boyfriend. The lucky one.

"You were amazing."

She lets go, grins at him.

"Thanks. It's mental, isn't it? I never thought it would actually happen."

"I did. You were always brilliant."

She pulls a face like she doesn't believe him.

"Did you hear the whole thing?"

"Yeah. Sorry, I would have tried to find you before but the place was packed."

"Don't worry, I was too busy trying not to throw up. Shall we sit down, get a drink?" She gestures towards the bar and he pulls out a seat for her.

"What do you want?"

"I'll get it," she says.

"Don't be daft." If this is a date then he's going to treat it like one.

She looks pleased.

"A cocktail then. You choose."

He orders one for both of them. She doesn't get the cocktail that Brendan had ordered before, the one with the yellow umbrella. Neither does he.

They clink glasses. A new DJ's started their set and for a while the pulse of the music fills the gap where their words would be. It can't last though.

"You look lovely," he says.

"Lovely?" She's playing with him but he can tell that she's affected by his comment. She looks like she hasn't heard it in a while.

"Shut up."

She laughs. "I don't think you've ever said that to me before."

"'Shut up?'"

" _Lovely_."

He thinks about saying something else: _Well, you are,_ or something more sentimental that sounds like a bad line. _Beautiful is what I meant._

Rae's not the type of girl who would buy into that, and he isn't the type of guy who would say it.

"You look good too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Nice hair."

He automatically looks up, even though he can't see anything.

"What's happened to that little fringe of yours? It almost looks _styled_."

"Enough of the little, if you don't mind..."

"Big fringe, then?" she says. "I almost miss it."

He wonders if he should be blushing, but he isn't.

"It's weird."

"What is?" he says.

"That this _isn't_ weird. Does that make sense? I thought it would be strange seeing you again after all this time, but it isn't. It feels the same as always."

"I know what you mean." It isn't a lie. It's easy, the two of them. He can feel them slipping back into it, the way they used to be.

"How have you been?"

"We're talking years here, Rae." He doesn't even know where to start.

"I know, but... just generally."

It would have been fine if she'd asked him this a year ago. He would have been able to tell her that he was okay, that despite work and the lack of money he was coping. He knew what to expect.

Now he has to leave a whole chunk of his life out.

"I'm still in the HVF. I'll be leaving soon though," he adds, knowing that Rae's always been uneasy with him being involved with them.

"Really?" She looks surprised. She must have expected him to stay there his whole life, trapped, just like everyone else. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't really know." He jumps in quickly, desperate to make it into something positive. He has to. He has to think that there's something he's heading towards, that it's not just blank. "But we might move, me and Ames. Get out of Chester, get a place nearby. That way we'll still be able to take the kids to see Amy's dad, but we'll be away from everything, you know?"

Away from Brendan. Only Brendan won't even be around then.

"So you and Amy, you're still..."

"What?"

"Living together." She looks like she's correcting herself, like she changed what she was going to say at the last minute.

"Yeah. It's best for the kids, isn't it? Stability and all that. And we get on, so."

"But you're not..."

Now he knows what she'd meant to ask.

"We're not together. I told you ages ago, that's all over."

"I know, I just thought... It was a bit unusual, Ste. You two still living together even after you'd split up."

He hadn't expected jealousy before they were even together again.

"We're best mates. She's been dating since then."

"And you?"

"Have I what?"

"Been dating," she says, like he's being slow.

"No."

Shagging Veronica doesn't qualify as dating. Wanting to kiss Brendan all the time doesn't even come close.

Rae doesn't hide her smile. He can still see it even when she sucks on her straw.

"Have you?"

"There have been a couple of guys. Nothing serious, just a few dates and that."

He tries to feel it. _Jealousy_. He should hate them. He should want to hurt them. There's been times that he's wanted Carmel to suffer, even though he's felt ill about it afterwards. She doesn't deserve that. It hasn't stopped it though. It hasn't stopped it from taking over.

"Right."

"My Nan keeps saying that I should give them a chance. There's been this guy recently, and he wanted more."

He isn't sure why she's telling him this. He has the awful thought that she's suddenly seeing him as one of _those_ guys. A cry-on-your-shoulder type.

She looks at him, poised for his reaction. She goes on when he doesn't say anything.

"Shall we try and get a table? There are some free ones over there."

"Okay."

He doesn't know why she wants to move from the bar, but he goes with it. It's still loud as they make their way to the spare seats but he can hear himself think now. He isn't sure he likes it.

He's ready to change the subject. She isn't.

"There was a reason why I couldn't go through with it."

He frowns, not understanding.

"That guy. The guy who wanted us to be a couple."

He knows where she's going with this, but he's willing her not to. It's why he came here tonight, but he isn't sure he's ready any more. Maybe if they had a few more drinks and waited, then he could talk about it. Time, that's what he needs.

"My Nan said... She thought that I was still hung up on you." She laughs and she looks like she's expecting Ste to as well. To dismiss it all as stupid.

It's now or never.

He leans forward, doesn't look away. Doesn't try to talk about something else. Doesn't offer to buy her another drink and make a swift escape.

"Was she right?" He's putting this voice on. _Flirting_. He sounds like he wants her to be right.

She wets her lips. It doesn't seem fair that she's nervous like this and he isn't. Where are his sweaty palms and quivering pulse? Butterflies, that's what they say. That's the stupid thing they go on about. Butterflies in your stomach and not being able to sleep or eat or think about anything else.

"I think so." She says it quietly but he can read her lips over the sound of the music.

He kisses her.

It's soft, brief. Testing. When he pulls back she takes longer than he does to open her eyes.

"Yes," she says.

"Yes?"

"I mean... yes, she was right. When things ended between us, it didn't end for me. I didn't just... I know it was so long ago. I know we weren't even... Listen to me, I'm all over the place."

He puts a hand on her leg.

"You're not."

"I am." She takes a deep breath, looks like she's trying to start again. "I know we weren't even serious. I know I wasn't even your girlfriend, not properly. But I wanted to be. I want to be."

She puts her hand on top of his. He can taste her lipgloss on his mouth. Strawberry.

"I thought about you a lot. I wanted to phone you."

"Why didn't you?"

"I thought you hated me."

"I didn't hate you, Ste. I was just confused, that's all."

"Confused?" Angry he'd expected. Upset. But not confused.

"By you."

"I'm not that confusing, am I?" He tries to make it sound funny but he doesn't like it. _Confusing_ : it sounds abnormal.

"The way you were acting, it was just... I never knew if you really liked me."

"Of course I did."

He feels like this has come out of nowhere. He'd kissed her. Gone on dates with her. Slept with her. He thought he'd made her feel good. Wanted.

She shakes her head like she's trying to shake the thought away.

"It was probably just me being ridiculous. We were young. Maybe it's better now. Things have changed, haven't they? It'll be different this time."

He kisses her again. It's easier than listening to all the ways in which he confuses her and made her think that he didn't like her. And she's right; it is different this time. It's different and he can't make it go back to the way it was before.

He hadn't used to think when he was kissing her. There had been the sensation of her lips and her tongue and her body that he had been pressing against, but now it's there in his head. _Noise_.

Where to place his hands. A strange desire to open his eyes because it doesn't feel like it'll make much difference either way. How hard he should kiss her. How soft. What he'll do if she invites him back to her place tonight. What he'll tell her if he doesn't have an erection. What he'll have to think about to get one.

His eyes snap open. She can't possibly see it but she seems to sense it. She leans back, looks at him.

"Are you okay?"

She wants this. Wants him. He knew it when she saw him here at the club, could tell by her reaction. But it's real now. She's real, and she's here, and she'll hurt when he lets her down. And he will.

"No."

His honesty startles her. She looks like she's trying to regroup, trying to adjust to this new reality.

"Okay." She seems to be searching for the words. "What's wrong?"

"I can't."

He wishes that could be enough. That she would somehow understand just from that, and wouldn't force him to keep on talking.

"Can't..." She's looking angry now, demanding for him to explain.

"Can't be with you."

It makes him feel worse to say it. Because if he can't be with her, a girl who he has history with, a girl who he actually fancied, then who can he be with? Which girl?

"You just kissed me," she says, and she still doesn't sound like she understands.

"I know. I'm sorry."

He wonders if there's some way of explaining that the kiss hadn't been bad. It just hadn't been right. He had been aware of the mechanics and what he should be doing. What he should be feeling. But there's no way of telling her. All it sounds like is that she's not enough.

"I thought... you showing up tonight, I thought that it meant..."

"It did. I wanted... I wanted us to get back together."

"You've got a weird way of showing it."

"I know you must hate me," he says.

"I don't hate you. I just don't get it."

"Things have happened recently. I just don't think it's the right time for us."

She looks at him. He's afraid of what she sees; afraid that she's looking close enough to see everything.

"Is there someone else?"

He's about to start lying, but he hasn't got enough fight left in him.

"Kind of."

 _Yes._

"So when you said that there hasn't been anyone else... that was a lie?"

"Nothing's happened." The last thing he needs is for Rae to think that he's a cheat and was going to use her.

She raises a sceptical eyebrow.

"It hasn't. I swear. We haven't even kissed."

"But you like her?"

 _Her._ That instinctive assumption. He can't blame her for it. He must have done it himself, thousands of times. If it's a girl then it's _do you have a boyfriend? A_ nd he's always automatically thought that if it's a bloke then he must have a girlfriend. He wonders how many people he's made feel uncomfortable along the way. Backed into a corner and too scared to tell him the truth.

"Yeah."

It's strange to talk about it. It doesn't feel safe. She doesn't even know Brendan but he still feels like she's too close to the truth. That any moment she could catch him out and find out everything that he's been trying to hide.

He hopes she won't want to talk about it any more, that she'll find it too much after what's just happened. But she's curious now.

"And it's really not Amy?"

"No. I told you, we're just friends."

"Does she know about this girl?"

He shakes his head. It's both amusing and terrifying to think of Amy and Brendan finally meeting.

"Why not? I thought you two told each other everything."

He tries to work out if there's a hint of bitterness in Rae's voice, but he can't hear it. She seems to have let it go, resigned herself to this new version of what they'll be. He _has_ become one of those guys.

"Not this."

"Ste?" She's being careful. He feels on edge by it, unsure of what she's about to ask him.

"Mm?"

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... you seem... I don't know, like this isn't exactly a good thing. I thought love was meant to make people happy."

 _Love._

"I'm not in love."

It's too hot in the club. Too many bodies packed together, even from where they're sitting on the outskirts of the main dance floor. He needs some air, some water. He needs to be anywhere else.

"Alright, you don't need to keep on saying it," Rae says.

He thought he'd only said it the once.

He wipes a hand over his forehead. There are still the same people in the club dancing together, talking. Kissing.

He closes his eyes, leans his hand against his temple. Whispers.

"I've fallen for the worst person I could ever fall for."

"It can't be that bad."

He laughs. He doesn't know what else he'll do if he doesn't.

"They can't ever want me back."

He wouldn't be able to say this if they were anywhere else. It's the sound, how the music distorts everything, how he can kid himself that Rae can't really hear him even if she's talking back to him. It's the low lighting. It's feeling loose from the drinks he's had.

"Why not? Is she with someone?"

He'll have to say it eventually. _Her. She._ It's only going to draw attention to it if he doesn't.

"She just doesn't want me."

He's never said that before. He's thought it. Tormented himself with it. But never like this, never out loud. It makes it more permanent.

"People can change their minds," Rae says.

He shakes his head. This isn't that. This isn't getting to know a girl, trying to win her round. This isn't what he'd done with Amy all those years ago, trying to convince her that he was someone worth taking a chance on.

This is a dead end. No hope.

"Maybe if you just talk to her -"

"Rae, please."

"I'm just trying to help."

"I know. And that's... it's good of you, really." It's more than he deserves after leading her on. "But I can't. I just can't."

"Do you want me to go?"

"I'm not really any company."

"That's not what I asked," she says.

"It's not that I don't want to see you. And you were brilliant up there. Seeing you like that, it was amazing."

"But your head's too mashed?"

"I'm sorry."

She gets to her feet. He can hardly look at her. This is her night. Her big chance. She invited him here for a reason, so that they could be together again. He's wrecked it.

"Call me, yeah? Once you've sorted things out."

"Really?" It's more than he'd hoped for.

"I still want to be friends. If you do."

"Of course."

She leans down, kisses his cheek. He watches her walk away, but then she hesitates. Turns back around.

"You know all those years ago, when things didn't work out between us?"

He nods.

"Was it because of this? Because of this girl? I know you said that nothing's happened. I know you didn't cheat, but that still doesn't mean that it wasn't about her."

 _No. No, I didn't even know her then._

But it doesn't feel like the right answer.

"Kind of. I think so. Yes."

She smiles. "That's three different answers."

He smiles back at her.

"Yes. I mean... yes. It was because of that."

::::::

There's a queue for the toilets. He stands impatiently, trying to drown out the chatter around him. Everyone seems to be drunk, cheerful. Happy. It's just him, alone.

He locks the bathroom door when it's his turn, sits on the closed toilet seat. He needs a second. He just needs to breathe and think about what to do next. It's running through his mind, everything he said to Rae, and what he'd left out and what he should have left out. He tries to believe that it was harmless, but it doesn't feel like that. _Too much._ It was all too much.

At the start of the night he thought he was going to have a girlfriend again. Now he has nothing. It feels further away than ever.

He opens his eyes slowly. His lids feel heavy, and it takes him a moment to work out what he's seeing through the crack underneath the toilet door.

Black shoes. Familiar. Distinct. And a smell. Aftershave.

He stands so quickly that it makes him dizzy. He ignores the stars he's seeing and throws open the door. There are protests as he shoves his way past the waiting queue. He'd seen it. He'd definitely seen it.

It's too crowded for him to be running but he doesn't see how he could go any faster. It's important, it's all important. He has to keep going, has to find him.

Ahead, right in front of him. The back of him, dark hair and the leather jacket that Ste's seen before. The leather jacket that he'd wanted him out of. Too distracting.

He's aware that he's shouting: _Wait._ There's other stuff too, words in his head, jumbled, and the scenarios are coming back, or maybe they're dreams, or maybe they're all the same thing, no line between them any more. Grabbing. A kiss. Oblivion.

He does grab. He's got his hand on his arm and it's then that he wonders if he's made a mistake, if this isn't Brendan but a stranger that Ste's conjured up. Terror grips him; he can't be like that. He can't start seeing things. Wanting them is bad enough.

But there are the eyes, the blue of the contacts. The moustache. A cross necklace nestled over the front of Brendan's black T-shirt, shining red as the lights ghost over it.

He's holding a bottle of something. He's swaying lightly, and it's then that Ste realises it's from the force of his touch, from how hard he's pulled him. He lets go, but he doesn't blink. He can't lose him.

"You're drinking?"

He's marvels at how normal the question is, when all he wants to demand is for Brendan to kiss him.

"Why not?"

"You can't."

Ste makes an attempt to snatch the bottle away. Brendan holds it out of reach, takes a swig from it. Long. Unhurried.

"You'll hurt yourself." It's hurting _him_.

There's a shrug of his shoulders. Another swig. Ste can just about see how much is left in the bottle. It's more than half empty.

"What are you doing here?"

It doesn't feel real. He feels high on something. If he did kiss Brendan now then he could believe that it's not really happening; that he'd wake up in his bed and this would all be a bad trip.

He moves closer but Brendan steps away from him.

"Had a good time, Steven?"

Ste doesn't know exactly how it works, but he's sure that rotters can't get drunk. Otherwise he would have sworn that Brendan was fucked out of his mind.

"Fine."

Brendan laughs like he's told a lie.

"What?" Ste says, feels defensive and doesn't know why.

"You do like your blondes, don't you?"

The bottle's empty now. It smashes onto the floor.

"Brendan!" He makes it out of the way before the glass gets any closer. He waits for security to come, for someone to interrupt and chuck them out, but the music must be too loud.

"Don't worry." Brendan brings out another bottle that he's got stashed inside his pocket, shows it to him like it's a proud souvenir.

"I'm not the one who needs to worry. What are doing, trying to make yourself ill again? Give it here."

He doesn't stand a chance. Even in the state he's in Brendan easily bats his hand away, holding onto the bottle firmly. His grip looks vice-like.

"So. Rae, is it?"

"How do you..." He looks behind him pointlessly, as though expecting to see the evening's events playing like a flickering film. Expecting to see Brendan watching in the background. "Were you following us?"

"I was having a drink."

"Bit of a coincidence, isn't it."

"I didn't know you went for teenagers."

"What?"

"Bit young, isn't she," Brendan says. He's started on the other bottle. He's not swigging it any more; it's too fast for that.

"She's a couple of years younger than me. That's all." He's about to say more, _I haven't done anything wrong,_ when he stops, holds himself back. "It's none of your business anyway. What the fuck are you doing, showing up here and drinking? You know how bad it got last time. You want that again, do you? Staying in bed all day, me not knowing whether you're going to live or..."

"Or die? Bit late for that."

"That's not funny."

The second bottle ends up next to the first one. Brendan bends over, stares at the mess of broken glass. He moves closer.

"Don't." Ste blocks his path, hears the crunch of glass underneath his shoe.

"It won't hurt me. It'll all heal." He doesn't sound like he cares either way.

"I don't want to see."

Brendan straightens up. Ste still doesn't move back; he can't risk it.

"Does Amy know?"

"What?"

"That you're fucking someone else."

"I'm not _fucking_ anyone."

They've attracted an audience now. The queue for the toilets doesn't seem to be moving. Everyone's standing and staring at them.

He's going to have to leave and trust that Brendan will follow him. That he won't pick up the glass.

"I'm not doing this."

He walks, makes sure that Brendan's behind him, his shadow.

"Doing what?"

"Talking about this. I'm not..."

It's him being grabbed now, and spun around to face Brendan.

"Rae."

That's all he says. Just her name.

Ste pulls his arm free.

"Do you fancy her? Is that it?"

"Fancy her." His voice sounds dead.

"Do you think that she's too good for me? Is that why you're here? Bored of Carmel, are you?"

Brendan raises his hand. Ste shrinks back, turns his head away.

He waits. Waits for the blow, but instead there's a hand on his face, lightly touching. Stroking.

"You're an idiot."

He'd rather have had the blow.

Ste looks at him. Makes sure that he keeps looking as he speaks.

"I fucked Veronica."

There's silence. A gap between the last song ending and the next one starting. Neither of them move.

Brendan nods: _That's done then._

He walks away. Keeps walking until he's turned a corner and Ste can't see him.

He could go back, clear up the glass. He could go home. He could go and find Rae, take back everything he said tonight.

He follows. Walks and then runs. Elbows his way through the crowd and searches, looking towards the door to see if Brendan's there, searching again when he's not. Then he's out into the open air, shoes scuffing against the pavement.

He runs towards the alleyway, sees him. He's crouched against the wall, hands resting. There's black. So much black. The retching sounds painful.

 _Brendan._

He hears him call and darts away, a frightened animal. He's too fast and Ste trips in his attempt to keep up. He's lost him. It's dark and he could be anywhere. He won't go home; he knows that Ste would follow him there.

Ste knows he's gone, but still he doesn't stop calling his name.

::::::

He gets out his phone, before he can stop and think about the millions of reasons why he shouldn't be doing this.

His fingers move quickly as he types out his message. He has to go back and read it through, see that it makes sense.

 _Tony, I need a favour. Can you go to the treatment centre tomorrow morning and get me Brendan's phone number from his file?_

He'd had it all; Brendan's address, his contact details. He'd stupidly thrown them away. If he didn't have them stored in his phone then the temptation wouldn't be there.

Only now it's not just a temptation. He needs it.

It's taking too long. He stares at the screen, willing the message to come through. He'd ask Tony to go tonight if he could. He knows the treatment centre won't be open at this time, but Ste would do everything he could to convince him to break in to get that number.

He's so desperate to read his reply when it comes through that he struggles to take it in, his eyes greedy, hazy like everything's sped up and he can't keep up.

 _I'm a bit busy then. Why do you need it?_

 _Work stuff. Please, it will only take a minute._

 _I can't. Something's happened._

Ste frowns at the screen. This isn't like Tony, being vague. He can practically hear his shiftiness.

 _What is it?_

The wait for the next text is even longer this time.

 _It's Warren. He's in the hospital._


	31. Chapter 31

He's never liked hospitals. He doesn't suppose anyone does much. It's the associations. People don't think of life, of birth, of coming into the light with a burst of sound and sensation and an instinct to survive. They think of death. Of tragedy, of accidents and decay and the inevitable weakening of the body. They think of suffering.

It's cloying, the white walls and the clinical smell and the sound of coughing that fills the waiting room. Some of the people glance around, nervous, as though they could catch something. Not something that can be defined, because some of these people look perfectly healthy, nothing obvious affecting them. It's more general, more secretive: _Sickness_.

It's taking too long. He doesn't know what they're waiting for, but that's all they're doing. Waiting.

Tony's picked up one of the magazines from the table, is flicking through the pages. Ste doesn't know if he's taking in any of it, but even if it's for show it seems to be enough for him. He offers it to Ste when he's done with it; puts it back down when Ste shakes his head and selects a new one.

Ste sees one of the headlines: _I fell in love with a monster._ It's one of those real life stories, sensationalist, cash exchanged for personal details. His eyes linger on the page. A human in love with a rotter.

He stands up, paces.

"Can't we just go in?"

"They told us to wait." Tony doesn't look up. This isn't the first time Ste's done this.

"Wait for what though?"

"Maybe they have to clean him up first."

He comes to a standstill, unsteady on his feet. He sits back down before he falls.

Clean the blood off. Clean the damage away.

Tony looks up at him.

"You didn't have to come here," he says, and he doesn't sound casual now, doesn't sound disinterested. "After the way he's treated you, you'd have every right to sit this one out. He's not worth ruining your night for."

"I was just at home anyway."

"I thought you were on a night out?"

"What made you think that?"

Ste could tell him about Rae, but Tony knows that they used to see each other. It would lead to questions. To expectations. And Ste isn't ready to try and piece together what happened tonight.

"Your hair," Tony says simply.

Ste reaches up, presses a hand down on it. He can still feel the gel.

"Just felt like something different, that's all." His voice sounds small. Defensive. "And I'm staying. He's still... he's Warren, isn't he."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that he's always been here, you know? Even when we didn't exactly want him to be."

"Don't tell me you actually like him? You kept that quiet," Tony says, giving him a nudge.

"No. Of course not. But nothing like this has ever happened before. Even in The Rising he barely got hurt. No one ever touches him. And now he's lying in the hospital, and it's not... it's not..."

It's not right. He's imagined this before. Warren being hurt, Warren being gone. But it's all been in the heat of the moment, fantasies that exist when Warren's pushed him too far. He doesn't believe he has enough power for a wish to be made true, but still he can't help but feel that he's played some part in this.

"Tell me again what happened," Ste says. He needs to hear it from the start. Nothing was sinking in when Tony told him the first time. He was frantic, running to the hospital because taking a bus seemed like too much waiting, too much sitting around when he could be moving.

"He'd been in the hospital for a couple of hours before I heard he was here. They don't know who called the ambulance."

"How can they not know?"

"Maybe they couldn't trace the call. It could have come from a pay phone."

"Why would it though? Everyone's got their phones on them now, don't they? Whoever found him would have just used that."

Tony shrugs. "It's not important, is it? He's here, that's the main thing. He's alive."

"Is he?"

Tony doesn't answer him.

"You don't think... Tony, what if they're, like, preparing us?"

"How do you mean?"

"All this waiting. What if they've given up trying, and now they're getting ready to come down here to tell us?"

It would be murder. That's what whoever did this would be charged with.

"It could be an accident, couldn't it?" Ste turns to him, needs the reassurance. Needs to see that Tony believes it. "Anything could have happened."

"I don't think they're finding him a plaster for a cut, Ste."

"I know, I'm not saying that. But he could have... I don't know, fell down the stairs or something." He's desperate and they both know it. "It's possible."

A moment's hesitation, and then, "It's possible."

Ste settles back in his seat. He looks at the clock on the wall; not enough time has gone by.

A woman walks past them, head down, eyes trained to the floor. It doesn't hide it though; if anything it makes it more obvious, because Ste knows that stance, that experienced way of trying to avoid attention. She choses a seat away that allows her some distance from everyone else, but still she looks like the noise and the proximity is too much.

He can see the bruises, dark and the kind that hurt just to look at, that make you instinctively wince. The split lip. The blood. The shame.

She looks at him. It's fleeting, just a quick moment of eye contact before she looks away again, back at her shoes.

It's like she knows though. She knows men like him. She knows what he's done.

::::::

Time moves slowly here.

The seats are uncomfortable. He has to move around after a while, and he eventually settles on leaning against Tony. His head slips onto his shoulder, and Tony lets it.

"Ste?"

He makes a noise, shows that he's listening.

"Don't get mad, right."

Ste sits up straight, looks at him.

"What? What's happened? What have you done?"

"I haven't done anything." He stops for a second, looks around, makes sure that no one's close enough to hear. "It's you."

Ste frowns, not understanding.

"You can tell me. If something happened between you and Warren, you can let me know."

He can't believe what he's hearing.

"You think I did it?"

"Ste -"

"You think I'm the one who put him in here?"

He's loud enough to earn a few disapproving looks from the elderly couple across from them.

"I'd understand."

Ste shakes his head, wishes he could shake the accusation away with it.

"Have you been thinking that this whole time? All these hours that we've been here, when I was telling you that I couldn't believe what had happened. Were you thinking that I did it?"

"I'm not blaming you. I just want to know."

Ste puts space between them.

"What reason would I have? Why would I even come here if I did something like that?"

Tony can't meet his eyes. There's something he's not telling him.

"What?" Ste says.

"I heard what happened at the treatment centre."

Ste won't be able to lie and tell him he's wrong; he can feel himself colouring, becoming flustered.

"How?"

"You know this place. Gossip spreads. People talk."

It could have been anyone: the receptionist, the people he'd passed in the waiting area when he'd been dragged from the building. Everyone in the village could know about it by now.

"You know what Warren's done, then."

"Not the ins and outs. no. I can guess though. And everything with Brendan - it would be understandable if you wanted to talk to Warren, and things went too far."

So Tony doesn't think that he's a cold blooded killer. Just an unintentional attacker. He's not sure if that's a consolation.

"What do you mean, everything with Brendan?"

"What Warren wants you to do. I know you've spent more time with Brady lately. It can't be easy."

Ste looks away. Sense tells him that all these people in the waiting area aren't interested in him. They've got their owns lives, their own problems. But it doesn't stop him from feeling that they're listening in, focusing on him. Knowing what he has to do. Knowing what he wants.

They'd all hate him if they knew.

"It's just a job, Tony. Same as anything else."

"It's not though, is it. What he wants you to do, it's -"

"He's just a rotter," Ste says. His voice is firm, unrepentant. "I'm spending time with him because I have to. That's all. I wouldn't put Warren in the hospital because of it. I wouldn't put him in here for anything. It wasn't me, alright?"

Ste doesn't know at first if he believes him. But Tony nods after a moment, seemingly satisfied.

"Sorry." Ste doesn't tell him that it's okay. It isn't. "It could have been anyone. If we're lucky he saw who did it."

Ste hadn't considered that. He's right; there's the real possibility that whoever attacked Warren hadn't intended for him to ever wake up. The person wouldn't have cared if he'd seen their face.

That's if it's a person at all.

He'd thought it straight away. When he'd got the message from Tony it had all formed in his head: an image of Brendan in the darkness, contact lenses out, cover up mousse scrubbed clean to reveal the pale skin underneath. He could have used a weapon, or relied on his hands alone. The force of them. The damage they could do.

There's something else. He can't stop thinking about Brendan's promise: _I'm not going to do anything, Steven._

He hadn't believed him. Not then, not now.

But Brendan would be risking everything to do what he did to Warren. Ste can't think of any reason why he would do that, except for one. And the one reason can't be true.

It must be someone else.

::::::

He's shaken awake. He's bleary-eyed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His neck aches from being in an unnatural position.

"What's going on?"

"Time to go home, mate."

"Where's Warren?"

Tony looks sheepish.

"He doesn't want to see us."

Hours they've been here. _Hours_.

"He said that?"

"No visitors. The doctor said he's stable, but that's it."

"That's not it." He has no idea where Warren is, but he's ready to search every hospital bed if he has to.

Tony has other ideas. He's in his path. puts his hands on his shoulders to bring him to a halt.

"We can't."

"This is what he wants, isn't it? Even from his bloody hospital bed he's laughing at us."

"Or maybe he's ashamed," Tony says.

"He's done a lot more to be ashamed of."

"You know that, and I know that. But he doesn't think like us, does he? All the things he's done, he doesn't care. But this... this is different. He didn't win with this."

Tony takes his hands off him; he seems to have decided that he's not in danger of running any more.

"So we just leave?" Ste says. "After all this?"

"He'll have to talk to us sometime. But he's probably still recovering."

It's there again, those images. What Warren might look like. What might have happened.

"You will tell me when you come back, won't you? You won't go without me?"

"I promise," Tony says. "We'll go together. Why don't we go and get a coffee now, talk about things?"

"Maybe some other time."

He hasn't entirely forgiven Tony for thinking that he's played some part in this. But that's not all. He has other plans, and even as he's telling himself that he should go home and get some sleep he knows he won't. He knows that there's only one place he wants to be, and it's all so inevitable that he doesn't try to fight it. When he leaves the hospital he starts walking, and it already feels like a familiar path.

::::::

He doesn't have to wait long to be let in. He hears footsteps behind the door, and the smell of strong perfume hits him. After he makes his apologies - _Sorry Cheryl, I know it's late. Or early_ \- he's hugged, blonde curls in his face, and ushered in.

She doesn't seem to find it strange that he's here in the early hours of the morning. She's come back from a night out, and she's all ready to make him a cup of tea and wheel out the biscuits.

"That's alright. I won't have anything." If he sounds cold then he can't help it; he'd felt nauseous on his way over here and he hasn't managed to shake it off.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm just here to see Brendan. Is he asleep?"

"No, he had a late one too. He's upstairs packing. Have you finished yours yet?"

"Packing?"

She nods. "Don't tell me you're one of those last minute types like our Bren who leaves it till the day itself?"

"Sorry Cheryl, I don't..."

She finally cottons on to the fact that he has no idea what she's talking about.

"The holiday."

"What holiday?"

"Bren said he's going away. Barcelona, he said. I just thought..."

He can't hide it. He must look stricken, because her eyes are full of concern now.

"He didn't tell you?"

He shakes his head. He'd known that it was likely to happen, that he could only keep Brendan here for so long.

"Must have forgotten to."

There's an uncomfortable pause where it's clear that she doesn't know what to say.

"It's fine." Somehow this only seems to draw attention to how very not fine it is.

"I'm sure he was going to tell you today," she says. "He's had a lot on his mind. And I think he only said it was for a week. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that."

He thinks she's talking about herself at first; about missing her brother. But she's smiling at him like they're sharing something, like she's telling him a secret. It's knowing. He just wishes _he_ knew.

"He's upstairs if you want to see him." She walks around the kitchen, starts gathering things up: her keys, her bag, her jacket that's slung over a chair.

"Where are you going?"

 _Don't leave me here. I don't know what I'm dealing with. I don't know what I'll do._

"Just into town."

"At this time?"

"The Loft will still be open. It's a shame to waste this make up."

She winks at him, gives him a kiss on the cheek.

It's his chance to say something, to stop her, to leave before she does. But all the things he could say are stuck in his throat, lodged there by other things. Barcelona. Cheryl thinking that they'd be there together. Warren, lying in a hospital bed and not wanting to see anyone. The way Brendan had talked about Rae.

The door shuts behind her.

It's quiet in the flat. There's no music coming from Brendan's room. No footsteps on the stairs to welcome him.

It's up to him. No one's going to act for him. No one's going to save him.

He heads towards the front door, then turns again. Walks up the stairs, and keeps walking until he's reached Brendan's bedroom.

He looks taller than he remembered. Hair darker. Eyes more blue. Long fingers, rarely still. Twitching in that way of his that commands your attention, something majestic about it. The action is nervous, but there's nothing shy about him. Nothing that shrinks away. Nothing that's hidden. He's the only thing in any room that could be worth looking at.

And it feels like Ste's been looking at him for a long time.

He wouldn't be able to tell anyone. Wouldn't be able to explain how it's the best and worst feeling. How it's tearing him apart, that sometimes the force of it feels like it will knock him off his feet and propel him to the floor, make him stay there. Gone. Finished.

He wouldn't be able to explain that alongside that is the thought that he can do _anything_. A fire's burning inside of him, so fiercely that it seems impossible that the entire world hasn't gone up in flames. So much of the village is still the same. So much of his life is still the same.

And yet.

It would be a good way to go. If he kissed him, if it was the last thing he ever did before Brendan tore him limb from limb, disgusted at what he'd done, then it could be worth it. It isn't that Ste isn't thinking about consequences; about staying alive and the kids and Amy and all the things that he has to fight for, be around for. He just isn't sure he cares much.

Just a few steps. That's all it would take to reach him, to end the hours and days and weeks that he's spent thinking about this moment. What he would do. What he would say. And all the things he wouldn't be saying, because he'd be too busy kissing him instead.

"Hi." Ste gets the word out eventually, dry in his throat, strange on his tongue.

A nod of acknowledgement. It's disappointing. Ste had wanted to hear his voice.

"You're packing." He sounds calm. It unnerves him. It feels like a storm's building.

"Nothing gets past you, Steven."

That voice. What he'd wanted. Only they're back to this again. The sarcasm. Surface-level talk. A wall. A locked door.

"Cheryl told me about the holiday."

He's not imagining the tensing of Brendan's shoulders. The way his movements still. The breath to steady him.

"Did she?"

He does this when he's biding time. Asks questions.

Ste could go along with it. It scares him less than what he came here to do. But he's done wasting time.

"She said something."

"Says a lot of things, my sister."

"Something important. Something about me."

Brendan gives him that look. The bored, _I'm waiting_ look. It isn't natural. Ste can see the effort it's taking him from across the room.

He doesn't know what he looks like. Doesn't know if he looks brave. Doesn't know if he looks guarded. Doesn't know if he looks like he feels, like he's tired of pretending and this is it. No going back.

"She said that she thought I was going with you."

He laughs. It cuts through the room, ripples. It isn't high, isn't manic like Ste's heard from him before. It's not private either, not rare and sincere and all too brief. It's got an edge to it.

Terror.

"She thought..." Brendan says, and he looks like he's going to repeat the words back to him, but Ste doesn't let him. He can't hear it again, can't hear it twisted this time, shining a gaudy light on it and making it something ridiculous and impossible and wrong.

He wants to keep it as it was. Him and Brendan. Going away. Together.

"You and me. Yeah."

The more Brendan laughs the more it all falls away. The reason that Ste had come here. The sliver of hope.

"Why would she say that?"

He's not asking Brendan; he's asking himself, needing to, because none of this is making any sense. He needs to be here, needs to be in Brendan's flat and in Brendan's room and close to him to work it all out, because putting distance between them will make him start to doubt it all. He knows that the moment he leaves he'll start to wonder if any of this even happened at all.

This is where he belongs. This is where he can become unstuck.

"You know Chez, she's..." He's floundering and he knows it. Ste doesn't know her. He can't dismiss this as Cheryl being Cheryl.

"Other stuff she's said, it's..." He's trying to think back but it's too hard. Every memory isn't what Cheryl said. It's what Brendan did. It's not killing him in the cage when he had the chance. It's knowing about his dyslexia and not telling anyone. It's the car rides home. It's _this is what we do._

There's no room for Cheryl or anyone else in any of that. They're all being crowded out.

But he knows it's important. He knows it's all a sequence, or a link, or something that'll help him figure out what the fuck is going on.

But the room's getting smaller. He can't think of anything. He eyes are darting, restless, and he can't settle at a point for long enough. He can't look at Brendan any more. He can't. It's there, how much he wants it all.

There's a suitcase. He'd seen it when he'd first entered the room but he hadn't focused on it. It's half packed or half empty; he isn't sure which one is better. Half packed is too full, too much, too definite. Half empty means that he has to watch Brendan pack the rest.

There's a razor inside. He'll be doing that for her sake. Shaving. She won't want the skin around her mouth getting marked.

He wouldn't mind.

He isn't a neat packer. It looks disorganised, like Ste's own would be. His clothes aren't folded properly. They'll be creased by the time he gets to Barcelona. Maybe he doesn't plan on wearing them much.

There's an electric toothbrush lying on top. Somehow it's harder to see that than the clothes. More intimate. Ordinary. Early mornings and late nights. Morning breath replaced by mint.

"You're all set then." His voice sounds like he hasn't spoken in a long time. It breaks around the words, croaks. Clearing it would only draw attention to it, so he does nothing.

"Nearly. Just a few more things to pack."

He doesn't sound guilty. He doesn't think he's got anything to be guilty for.

"When are you leaving?"

"In the morning."

Ste nods, tries to take it in, but it's all as jumbled as the contents of the suitcase. Brendan won't be here. He'll have to wait a week before he sees him again.

"Are you here to threaten me?" Brendan says, and he leaves the derision out, doesn't mention the fact that Ste threatening him is something that's embarrassingly unlikely. He's tried it before and it's never worked. "If you're going to tell everyone about the food thing, then -"

"I'm not."

He'd imagined it on his way up the stairs to Brendan's bedroom. What he could say, how he could keep him here. He's half convinced it could work, but he can't bring himself to give the ultimatum. There would be a certain kind of relief in Cheryl finally knowing, of the knowledge that Brendan wouldn't have to pretend to eat and drink in front of her any more. But Ste would know what else would happen; the shame and humiliation that Brendan would feel if Cheryl knew his secret. Having to reveal that he's been lying to her all this time.

He can't do it to him.

Brendan looks surprised.

"Why not?"

"You never told anyone about me." He looks at him. "Did you?"

"You keep asking me that. I told you -"

"I know."

He knows that Brendan had promised. But he isn't used to this. He doesn't know what to do when someone actually sticks to what they say. When they don't hurt him.

Amy had been the exception. Ste never thought there would be anyone else.

"Just tell me one thing." Ste says.

 _Tell me you want me. Tell me that I'm not the only one feeling like this._

"Go on."

"Tell me what you want with Carmel. I mean what you really want. I know there's something else going on. Just tell me."

Brendan turns away from him, bending down to pick up a shirt from inside his drawers. It's one that Ste recognises; tight, black, the kind that clings and looks like it was tailored for him. He follows Brendan's hands as he inspects it for cleanliness and folds it away.

He's got good hands. Strong. Powerful.

Ste's encouraged by the silence. There's a thoughtfulness there, a lack of a comeback. There's not the dismissive quip that he'd expected, and his skin feels like it's buzzing from the possibility of the truth. He's excited. Scared.

"She wants to come."

He hasn't been hit. He hasn't been punched or winded or hurt, but for a second it feels like all the air has been knocked out of him.

"And do you want her to come?"

It's harder to hide it. It seems impossible that Brendan doesn't know why he's here, what he's saying. His eyes sting; he's sure they're bloodshot, that there's a wide-eyed desperation there that makes him look unhinged, but a mask of normality is evading him. He can't put it back on again.

He waits. He doesn't know if he's strong enough for the truth. He doesn't know if he can take a lie.

"Yes."

Ste turns away from him, looks towards the door. It's a short flight of stairs. A short walk to the front door. He's run home from this flat before. Run until his body's screamed at him to stop and his feet have felt like they're bleeding and his heart has banged in his chest. He could do with that now; that reminder that he's alive. That he isn't sinking.

But it's as if Brendan isn't letting him leave.

There must be a piece of invisible string. That must be what it is, how Ste's being pulled back around, still in Brendan's orbit. Still circling him. Still staring at the suitcase and how it's gradually getting more full, more finished. Closer to being on that plane.

"There's stuff I don't understand," Ste says, and he doesn't have to look at Brendan to know that he must be frowning at him, that he must be preparing some kind of comeback. _Stuff in general, or...?_ He doesn't know if this will make any sense, but he has to get it out. He has to try. "Last night."

He's looking at the floor. He can see Brendan shift. Can feel the atmosphere change, become something else.

"You were at the club."

He's sticking to facts for now. He was there. Rae was there. Brendan was there. Facts are easy. He can't be accused of distorting them. It's everything else that goes along with that that makes it difficult.

"I was having a drink," Brendan says.

"It seemed like you'd had more than one."

"I hadn't."

Ste lets it go.

"Were you okay after? It wasn't like before, was it? With you... you know. Being sick."

He takes so long to answer that Ste thinks he's choosing to ignore him entirely.

Then, reluctantly. "No. Not like before."

"Good." He doesn't know if he's telling the truth, but he wants to believe it. He can move on now. Move on to the next thing. "The things you said..."

"I don't remember what I said." Dismissive. Stubborn almost. A child: _I don't want to talk about this. Don't make me._

"You just said you only had one drink."

"I don't remember, Steven." Louder now. Aggressive. Warning him. _Back the fuck off._

"I'll remind you then." He looks up from the floor now. From this distance he can see where Brendan's cover up mousse has faded away, leaving behind small white patches. He wants to reach out, touch them. See if they feel any different. See if they're warm like the rest of him is.

Wipe all the mousse away.

"You said things about Rae."

"Is that her name?"

"You're doing it again."

"What?" Brendan says, and Ste wonders if it's possible that he really doesn't know. That he has no idea how he sounds when he talks about Rae. About Amy. They're separate in Ste's mind, the two of them, what he had with them. But to Brendan it seems to all be the same. He can't hate them; he doesn't know them enough for that. They haven't done anything to him. But he sounds like he does. It sounds like hate.

"She's nice. If you got to know her you'd see that."

It's not going to happen. He knows that. Brendan knows that. Brendan and Rae, they don't belong in the same place. Even the idea of them talking to each other is wrong. Ste doesn't know why, but he's sure that Rae would have no time for someone like Brendan. She wouldn't care that he's a rotter; she's never cared about anything like that. It would be everything else. It would be because he's Brendan.

Brendan doesn't need to tell him that he's being stupid. It's in the air between them, is in the way he recoils from the suggestion.

It doesn't matter. He's not here to talk about that.

"Brendan..."

Brendan knows what he's going to say. He must do. The sudden re-packing attempt, the forced act of being busy, the strained effort of being normal. He whistles. Ste's never heard him do that.

He's pretending he hasn't heard him. Ste suddenly feels invisible. He's been pushed out of the conversation, out of the room, out of the flat. Erased.

"Brendan," he says again. He must have heard him this time. He can't act like he hasn't.

Except he is.

He's getting boxers out of one of his drawers. Folding them quickly, haphazardly. The moment is brief, nothing more than seconds until Brendan shoves them into the suitcase and moves onto the next thing, but still Ste sees it, thinks it, wants it: boxers on the floor, taken off by eager hands. A bed. _This_ bed. A shift in his mind; he remembers being there once when Amy had bought new underwear. Bras and knickers and lace and now there's this, only this.

"I told you about Veronica." His voice is mechanical. He feels distant from it, from the act itself. It scares him. He'd been there; he'd been in that bed with her and he'd kissed her and it had all seemed so expected.

But he hadn't expected to feel cut into two. Before and after.

He's seen Brendan look like this before. The blue of his contacts may as well not exist; his eyes are hard, cold. The tendons in his neck are stark, jutting.

"I remember."

There's still distance between them, but Brendan could cross it easily. Ste's aware of it; aware of how likely it is that he could hurt him.

Ste stays where he is. He'll risk it. He needs to spark a reaction. Needs to keep Brendan talking. Needs to know how he feels, even if that means being caught in the fire.

"You were right. Those things you were saying about me and her, about... You know, what had happened between us. You were right." His mouth's dry; he wets his lips but this isn't something that can be cured through that, or remembering how to breathe. He knows it won't stop until he gets through this. "I did sleep with her."

Another item goes in his suitcase: aftershave. Ste recognises it, the same bottle that he'd sprayed onto his neck from the bathroom cabinet.

He keeps talking. Keeps going.

"It was just a one-off. Just sex." He feels embarrassed to say the word in front of Brendan. Caught out. That now that he's said it everything else will come tumbling out too.

He's aware of the silence in the rest of the flat. Just them, uninterrupted. They could do anything.

"Brendan?"

A soft hum in answer, disinterested. Detached.

So Ste moves closer. His feet feel the impact of the suitcase as it touches them. If he gets any closer then they'll be nothing between him and Brendan.

"Did you hear me?"

"You said my name."

"Before that."

There's a photo frame behind Brendan, on the chest of drawers. A different picture than the one that Cheryl had shown him; Declan and Padraig, arms around each other, smiling for the camera. Brendan doesn't reach for it, but Ste wonders if he will later when he's alone. If it'll be something that he'll show to Carmel; an introduction to his family.

"I didn't plan it." He's going at a speed now, and what he'd intended to sound measured and controlled sounds panicked, rushed. A fight to tell the story. A need to get something in return. "We just went to her place."

He's tempted to give details. He doesn't do this. Even with Justin he had never bragged, has never told him anything about him and Amy or him and Rae. But now he wants to recount it: the cinema and what had happened in the darkness and the rush for condoms and the feel of Veronica underneath him. Everything but the phone call that she'd received. Everything but being locked out of her house. Everything but what he'd felt the entire time, that sense of wrongness that had clawed its way inside his body.

"She's my type, so." It doesn't feel like it's coming from him. "And you've got Carmel."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

 _Tell him._

"I'm just saying. You've got her." He swallows around the words, wanting to be wrong. But Brendan doesn't correct him.

He can still feel the suitcase against his feet. He struggles with the need to kick it. To tear it.

"She's too old for you."

Ste frowns.

"Veronica. She's too old," Brendan says.

"You said Rae was too young."

"She is."

Ste huffs a laugh.

"So who am I meant to be seeing then? Amy? She's my age."

Brendan's stopped packing. He's come to a standstill. More of the cover up mousse has come off in patches, and from where the light's shining Ste can see the sweat that's broken out across his skin.

"She's not right for you."

He wants to defend Amy, tell him that no one could be better, but he stops himself. He's on the edge of something here. He can feel it, all his senses finely tuned to this moment, to the knowledge that it's important even though he doesn't understand why.

"Who is right for me then?"

Even in his wildest dreams he'd never expect Brendan to say that he's the right one. His fantasies haven't extended that far. He knows Brendan's not right for him.

But still he needs an answer.

"Go on then," Ste says, and he feels like he's goading now, pressing against an open sore. "Who is right? First Rae's all wrong, then Veronica, then Amy. They can't all be wrong." Something occurs to him in a flash, unwanted, cutting. "Is it me? Is that why... Do you think I'm not good enough? Is that it?"

It could have been this all along: Brendan wanting to keep all these women away from him. He knows. Village gossip has spread. He knows what he's done.

He can feel his resolve crumbling. He can't defend himself, not against this. He can't look at him, can't see if there's judgement there that he hadn't seen before. Ste's eyes don't settle on his eyes; they focus on the area around his mouth. His lips are unexpectedly tinged with pink where Ste's sure they should be as white as snow. The corners of his moustache droop over, and there are small dark hairs where a beard would grow. His Adam's apple is prominent underneath his skin.

He's unmistakably male. He's unmistakably everything that Ste wants.

He just has to say it once. He longs for the imagined relief that it'll bring, the feeling of release that'll wash over him. The freedom of it all.

"Don't go," Ste says. Not what he'd intended, but the same thing in the end.

He sounds shaky like he does when he's about to cry, but his eyes are dry and he's managing to look at Brendan now. Eye contact, then the slow slide down to his lips again. A curiosity about what a moustache would feel like against his mouth. An acknowledgement that he'll most likely never know.

"What?" He's got his back against the chest of drawers, and Ste wonders if he's using it to steady him.

"Don't go. Don't get on the plane. Don't go to Barcelona."

"Steven."

It isn't _No_. It isn't _Stop_. It encourages him.

"I don't want you to go." Now that he's said it he needs to keep going. "You said I was lonely, and I told you that you were right. But there's more." He'd been ashamed in admitting the truth of Brendan's words, but now it's spilling out casually. It's nothing to him. He _is_ lonely. "It's not just that... It couldn't have been anyone."

He can see that Brendan's struggling to take all of this in. He needs to slow down, recalibrate, but there's no time for that. There's no time when Brendan could be gone tomorrow. There's no time when there's no certainty that he'll ever come back.

"I have Amy, and I have Tony. But they... It couldn't have been any person. It had to be you."

He wants to kiss him now. It's been a long time since he kissed anyone that he wanted to kiss, and for a moment he wonders if he even remembers how to do it right. He might be bad at it. Is it possible to want something too much?

"If you go then who's going to drive me home?"

He sees Brendan release a breath like a laugh.

"Sorry to make you spend the bus fare, Steven."

Ste shoves him. It's light, not enough to make him stagger backwards, not even enough to make him wince at the impact. His body feels like stone.

"Idiot," he says. "You know what I mean."

But Brendan looks like he doesn't.

"I'm talking about us in that car. I'm talking about you already tuning the radio to the station I like. And sometimes you won't even say anything. You'll just sit in silence and drive, or you'll grunt and just... be _Brendan_ , but it won't matter. Because you being Brendan is better than anyone else being them."

Brendan's eyes are on him. Ste can't help but feel that he's looking for something. His hands are by his sides, tense. It would be easy to reach out, touch them. Take them.

"Stay here," Ste says. He isn't sure how many times he's begged now, but he'll do it again if he has to. He can keep going.

"Why?" Brendan says, and Ste thinks it must be impossible that he doesn't know. That his wide eyed stare isn't an act. That he isn't pretending when he looks at him like this isn't quite real.

"Because I'll miss you."

Noise floats into the room from the street outside. He can hear the sound of a van, and there are other things: every day sounds that speak of life and movement and normality. Nothing else has come to a sudden halt.

It's an eternity that he's waiting.

"You've got to go." He's looking behind Ste's shoulder towards the door, already poised to walk through it, to leave if Ste won't.

"Wait." Ste reaches out, grabs Brendan's arm. He quickly releases it again, but it hasn't gone unnoticed; Brendan stares at his arm like he's been burned. "Doesn't what I said mean anything?"

"Steven."

It's not the answer he wants.

"No," Ste says. It's a scream inside his head, on and on: _No. No. No._

He doesn't know how to contain it any more. He tries to move forward but the suitcase is in his way. That stupid suitcase between them, its edges and contents becoming blurred as his eyes swim, unfocused.

Passport. If he can get Brendan's passport then he won't be able to go.

He isn't thinking about the fact that he may well have lost his mind. He isn't thinking about privacy or boundaries as he starts to rifle through the suitcase. At first he does it undisturbed, Brendan seemingly too shocked to spring into action. All that Ste can feel and see are clothes, and when they're of no use to him he discards them onto the floor. It's a mess. It's all a mess, patterns and colours and material scattered, forgotten as Ste tries to find what he's looking for.

Brendan's no longer inactive. He's all flailing limbs now, trying to push Ste away, but something about it feels different. It doesn't feel like he's fighting. There's a carefulness about it that Ste notices even when he's concentrating on finding the passport. He knows that Brendan could easily make him stop, could have him pinned to the floor, could hurt him, but he isn't.

He's reached the end now. No passport.

He's panting lightly. They've both stopped struggling, and the air is still. Slowly he crouches down. He needs to be sure, needs to see it clearly to believe that it's real.

His hand closes around it. He stands again, still holding it, the ends of the fabric balled into his fist. A gentle touch won't do; it could float away completely. Disappear.

Its brightness is untouched. Yellow. It's been months since he last saw it but he knows instantly that it's the same one. That it could only ever be the same one.

"Brendan."

He hears a sharp intake of breath next to him, and he wonders if it's Brendan who's got the scream inside his head now. _No. No. No._

"Why have you got my shirt?"


	32. Chapter 32

He can feel the material of the shirt against his fingertips. The fabric hasn't faded; it's as starkly yellow as ever, and it takes Ste back to that day. Veronica. Their one and only date. The anticipation beforehand and the humiliation that had followed. The name that had flashed on her phone screen, _Brendan_. How everything seemed to lead back to him, a cruel trick or a sign that the world was against him, that even him having sex for the first time in months couldn't just be simple, couldn't just be his.

Packed in the suitcase. That's where this shirt had been, deliberately place. Folded. Not a mistake. Not easily excused away by a story: it had fallen in, or Brendan had thought it was his, or any of the other elaborate lies that Ste's trying to predict, trying out for himself to see if they fit. They don't. There could be only one reason.

But the reason is impossible.

There's no break in the silence. No sudden rush of words as Brendan explains it away, wraps it all up neatly, asks him to leave. No end to the night where they go their separate ways, Brendan on a plane to Barcelona in the morning light, Ste back home to crawl into bed to try to sleep.

It's a standstill. Ste's determined not to break first, but so is Brendan.

He can't let this moment pass. If he lets it go then that's it. He's not sure he'll ever get it back.

"Brendan." He's surprised by how firm he sounds. _Ready_. He's ready for this now. "Why do you have this?"

When Brendan speaks it's as though there was never any gap in the conversation to begin with. But Ste hadn't imagined him standing there, frozen, terrified. He keeps hold of that terror. Needs it to prove that this is real.

"I was going to return it to you."

He snatches the shirt back, and it's then that Ste gets the smell of it. The Lynx he'd sprayed liberally over his clothes, and the faint underlying smell of the salt popcorn he'd had at the cinema that day and managed to spill over himself. It hasn't been washed away.

Ste tries to grab it back, but Brendan's ready for him. He has the shirt balled into a fist behind him, his body a shield.

"Go on then. Return it to me."

Brendan seems startled by the idea.

"It's mine," Ste says, but it doesn't feel like his anymore.

There's still too much distance. He resists the urge to kick the suitcase to the side and picks it up instead, places it on the bed.

That was a mistake. Until now he hadn't looked at the bed. He'd focused on everything else. The suitcase. Packing. Barcelona. Carmel. _Brendan_.

He hadn't thought about the fact that this was where it had all happened. Brendan lying there, helpless, needing him. The thought, the wish. The need to lean over and kiss him.

He tears his eyes away, focuses.

There's nothing to stop him from getting close now.

It's a child's game, what he's doing. The desperate attempt to grab the shirt in Brendan's hand, the struggle, the protest when he continues to evade him. His hand against Brendan's hand, the contact, the spread of warmth that he can feel in his whole body, the brush of skin against skin.

"Brendan." He's breathing hard; they both are. He's pushed back, but if there's any space between them then it's only for a second. Brendan comes with him, has Ste's back pressed against the bedroom door. He can feel his breath on his face, the heat of it.

"Like old times, isn't it?"

Brendan stops, takes his hands away.

"What?"

"Remember when we were in the cage?"

There isn't a sudden spark of recognition there, or a sign of a long-forgotten memory being brought to the surface. Brendan remembers. He's always remembered, like Ste has. There's no digging around to recall how it felt. It's with them.

"Are you going to hurt me now like you did then?" He's goading, watches as Brendan's eyes follow his movements: the touch of his wrists, the press of his thumbs against where Brendan had left marks. He gets what he wants, sees the sting of it. The momentary flinch from Brendan. "No," Ste says, and it's soft, quietly satisfied. "I didn't think so."

Brendan backs off. Circles his own wrists with his thumb.

"You attacked Warren that day." He speaks slowly, piecing it all together. He's thought about it all before, plenty of times, but not like this. Never like this. "He was going to hurt me. But you..."

 _You stopped him._

"You didn't even know me." It sounds strange; strange enough that he says it again. For twenty years Brendan didn't know him and Ste didn't know Brendan. All of his life, almost.

But that time, that _before_ , it feels like an empty stretch. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

"So I should have stood back, should I? Let Warren do that."

"That's not what I said. I want to know _why_."

"I hate him. You know that," Brendan says.

"Yeah, I do know that. I know that you hate the Human Volenteer Force too. That's me, isn't it? That should have been me. You could have killed me that day. I thought you didn't to save yourself, but that's... I don't know now."

"Cheryl would never have forgiven me."

"She wouldn't know if you had let Warren beat me up though." He watches Brendan carefully. "If he had punched me, or kicked me, or left me there bleeding. Brendan?"

He looks far away. Too far for Ste to reach him.

He chances touching him again, shakes him lightly. Brings him back to him.

"Why do you look like that?"

His eyes are glassy. The contact lenses can't hide that. He looks like he did that day when he'd had Warren pinned to the floor of the treatment centre. No one would have been able to reach him then. No one would have been able to pull him away.

Except _he_ had, hadn't he? _Ste_ had. The hand placed on Brendan's shoulder. His name spoken. Not _the rotter_ , not an _it_ , but Brendan.

He'd stopped. Ste had made him stop.

Brendan closes his eyes, turns away. It gives Ste the chance to look at him freely now. More of the cover up mousse has faded away; there's more of his own skin visible than the make-up now.

"Brendan."

He'll have to look at him eventually.

He seems to sway a little, closer to Ste, and for a moment he imagines their noses bumping together and the smack of lips on lips.

When he opens his eyes there's still that look, that fear, and they're so close that he can see the outline of Brendan's contact lenses.

He watches Brendan carefully, needs to be sure of his reaction when he speaks again.

"Did you hear about Warren?"

A small shrug of Brendan's shoulders, almost undetectable, but it doesn't escape Ste. Nothing does; not the way he's still gripping Ste's shirt in his fist, or how his gaze travels to the door. He must know that Ste couldn't stop him from running, but still he stays.

"He's in the hospital. Tony reckons he was attacked."

Brendan stands back a little, gives Ste breathing space. Instantly he wishes he wouldn't.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought you'd want to know," Ste says.

"Because me and Foxy are such good friends."

" _Exactly_. You hate him."

"So?"

 _So._ Ste hopes his silence will be the answer. He can't say it.

Brendan gets it. Laughs. Stands even further back.

"Wow. Okay. So you're... you think that I -"

"Did you?"

"You think a lot of me, don't you? First I'm leading Carmel astray, now I've tried to kill Warren. Trust me, Steven. If I wanted Foxy dead then I wouldn't have failed."

"Maybe you didn't want him dead. Maybe you just wanted to scare him, send him a warning."

"A warning."

"Alright, you don't have to make me feel stupid. I know it sounds daft, right, and I didn't even think about it before. Not really. Not until..."

He leans against the door, uses it to steady him. He's said too much.

"Not until what?"

He still has the chance to turn back. It's not too late.

But it already feels like it is.

"Until I saw that shirt here."

Brendan stares down at it in his hands. His thumb glides along the material, stroking.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything." Ste says. "You told me you lost it. Why were you going to take it to Barcelona? That's not... that's not normal, Brendan. Who does that? Who lies about something like that, and then takes it away like... like some kind of... Come on, tell me. There's no other way of explaining it, okay?"

Brendan opens his mouth. Closes it again.

"See," Ste says. "I'm right, aren't I? You can't explain it. You've always got an answer to everything. Everything that doesn't matter. But this... this _does_ matter. Try, Brendan. Try and tell me. Why did you keep the shirt? Why has Cheryl said all this stuff to me?"

He's remembering now. Or not remembering - _reassessing_. Going through it all again, everything she's ever said to him, when he'd thought she was just pleased that her brother had found a friend. Only now he's not so sure that that's all it had been.

"Why has she gone? It's the middle of the night and I've just turned up here and she's _gone_ , Brendan. She just accepted it, just let me in here like I'm..."

 _Like I'm someone important. Like she trusts me even though she hardly knows me. Like she thinks that it's perfectly normal for the two of us to be alone together at this time of night._

"She'll be fine. She's got friends around here," Brendan says.

"I didn't ask if she's going to be okay or where she's gone. I asked _why_."

Never has he seen Brendan like this; openly searching for what to say, with an anxious kind of desperation that makes Ste feel like he's watching him unravel.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

He can see how determined Brendan is to hold onto this; almost as determined as he is to hold onto the shirt that's still in his hand.

"I need a drink."

Ste stares at him, trying to work out if he's attempting to be funny. He looks deadly serious.

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid. I need a drink," he says again, and this time he looks towards the door hungrily, and before Ste can blink he's taken several strides forward. He already has his hand out to push the door open. His eyes are blank; he doesn't seem to be able to acknowledge anything else.

"Brendan."

Ste doesn't know what else to say, hopes that the call of his name will act as some sort of trigger and shake him out of this.

It isn't working. Brendan's trying to push him away like he's little more than a feather, and Ste can't let that happen.

"Wait." The sheer panic he can hear behind his own words is a shock. Brendan must be able to hear it too, how much he cares. "You can't."

"Why not?"

"You'll get ill. You'll..."

It's swimming in his vision, what he'd witnessed. Blackness. Endless. Brendan not even being able to stand upright. How he'd closed his eyes, and how Ste had listened closely to his breathing to see if it was different.

He can't go back to that. They can't go back to that.

"I need a fucking drink."

He's clawing at him now. Ste feels Brendan's fingernails scrape against his skin.

 _"No."_

Ste clings to his clothing, holds on even when Brendan's body jerks in his attempt to get him off him.

"Is this what you did when you were alive too? Just drink whenever you had a problem?"

He's touched a nerve; he winces when Brendan's nails dig into his flesh.

"I won't let you. You know I won't let you," Ste says.

"Why? Why do you care? Just leave me alone."

It's Brendan who leaves him alone. It's Brendan who lets go of him, who backs off. All the fight goes out of him, and Ste wishes that he'd have his hands on him again. It would be more dangerous for him but safer for Brendan. This display of defeat, this heavy sigh, this shrinking in on himself - this isn't Brendan.

"I can't," Ste says. He brings a hand up to his shoulder, feels where Brendan's fingers had dug into him, branding him. "It's not just about you anymore. When you drink, or when you... when you want to run, it's not... You can't keep thinking that you're the only one who matters in this."

He'd been wrong to think that there would ever be a perfect moment to tell him. There is no moment, no mythical _perfect_ , but there's this. There's here, now, and there's nothing better about it than any other time. There's nothing graceful, nothing that tells him that he's ready, that he won't regret it a thousand times over.

But he takes the leap.

"I've been having these thoughts." Thoughts is easier to say than feelings. "I thought I was going mad. I thought I was fucking crazy." He laughs. Only now is he able to. Only now can he look back at the sleepless nights and the days and the hours that had stretched ahead of him, too long, too easy for his mind to stray to what he most needed to protect it from.

He jabs at his head. It hurts but it doesn't matter. He's close to something now. He just has to keep going.

"All this stuff, it's been..." Another jab. So many times he's wanted to get it out this way, all the _thoughts_. Reach into his skull and claw them out one by one until there's nothing left. Replace them with something new. Something clean.

It all comes out at once. _I thought I was sick_ , and he's not whispering, not trying to hide the truth. It's not an absence of fear he feels; he's fucking terrified.

He's still here though. And he thinks he's starting to get what the point to all this is.

"It's not going away."

"What isn't?"

Brendan's voice isn't smooth like nectar, isn't soft or tentative or kind. _Rough_. It's rough, and Ste doesn't know what it says about him that he would answer to it anywhere, any time.

He doesn't dare look at Brendan. Not for this.

"You."

The movement isn't a jab this time. He lifts his hand slowly, settles it at his temple. _You. In there._

He'd expected an explosion. Anger, violence. Demands for him to get out, to never come back. Not this silence like nothing's changed.

Slowly he raises his head. Ste wills Brendan to do something, anything, but he doesn't take a step closer.

"Did you hear me?"

"You slept with Veronica." Brendan's voice cuts across him.

"That was months ago."

He can tell that it isn't the answer that Brendan wants. Ste doesn't know how to explain, how to even begin to tell him that everything's changed.

"I shouldn't have told you," Ste says. It's the best he's got. "Not like that. I was pissed at you, and it just... it just sort of happened. I'm sorry."

"You kissed Rae," Brendan says, as though this cancels out the apology, cancels out everything that could explain his actions away.

Ste had hoped he hadn't seen that.

"I did. And then I stopped it."

Brendan stares him down.

"What do you want? A medal?"

"Why are you being like this?" Ste says.

"Like what?"

"So _mean_."

Brendan laughs. It breaks something in Ste.

"You know what? Yeah, I did those things. I slept with Veronica, and I kissed Rae. And I was going to get back together with her."

Brendan stops laughing. Looks away.

"But I didn't. Doesn't that mean something? Don't you want to know why?" He doesn't give Brendan time to ask why. Ste's shouting now, and he knows that even if Cheryl was downstairs he wouldn't be able to stop. "It's because of _you_. Do I have to spell it out for you? Fine. I will. I think about you all the time. I wish I didn't. I'd do anything to get rid of you. But I've _tried_. I've tried and I'm done. So I just have to accept that this... this thing I feel, it's not going to disappear."

He moves forward, snatches the shirt from Brendan's hand before he can react. That doesn't stop him from trying to get it back. He makes a flying grab for it, but this time Ste's the quick one.

"But what's this, Brendan? What's _this_? You're acting like I'm the crazy one turning up here, but what's this?"

"I wasn't going to do anything with it." He looks hot, caught out, and lost for what to do with his hands now that they're empty.

"You were going to take it on holiday." All he's doing is saying what he knows to be true, but Brendan's recoiling, acting like he's firing shots at him. _Torture_. That's what Brendan's treating this as. It only encourages Ste; he hopes that there'll be a breaking point, that he'll be able to push and push until Brendan tells him everything. "What were you going to do? Keep it in the drawer in your hotel room? Get it out when Carmel wasn't looking?" He laughs, cruel, mocking, but necessary. He tries not to think about the vest back at the flat and how many times he's taken it out of its hiding place. "Were you going to _smell_ it?"

He waits for the comeback, for the shared laughter, for Brendan to prove him wrong.

 _No, Steven._

 _Don't be so stupid, Steven._

But there's no denial. Only an intense shame.

"Do you like... like me?" He whispers it, amazed at the idea, amazed that Brendan could.

Slowly Ste looks at him, waits for something to change in his expression, waits for a sign. Waits to see that he's not alone here. That everything that's worked its way into his head these past few months has been in Brendan's head this whole time, churning. All he can think about, infiltrating its way into every part of him. It's not just Ste's thoughts that are different. It seems to surge through his whole body, make him breathe faster, make him blush, make him aware of the way he wrings his hands and bites his nails when he's nervous.

And he gets nervous around this man. A lot.

"Like you? Grow up, Steven."

Ste knows it's deliberate, designed to hurt. But the calculation of it doesn't make it any easier to take. He doesn't care if Brendan's pretending. He needs him to tread gently here. He's not sure that Brendan realises how this all has the power to destroy him.

"That's not a no."

It's not a yes either, but he's choosing to ignore that.

Ste's backed him into a corner. He's floundering now, running out of time, running out of space.

"You think I'm queer?"

Ste flinches. He hasn't heard that word in a long time, not since he was in school and it was thrown around as an insult, as a way to wound. It was all too easy to use, a shout across the playground, an instant form of demasculinisation, and he knows he shouldn't have cared but he did. He does. It stung and he still can't quite work out why. And then it became his shout, his insult. _Queer_. It gave him power. Made him feel strong before the energy and the anger he felt would fade, vanish into nothing.

"I'm asking you if you're gay."

He feels the need to backtrack when he sees Brendan's reaction. The undisguised fury. The darkening of his eyes, the purposeful move closer towards him.

"Or bisexual, or..." He isn't making it better, but still he goes on. If the damage is already done then he's not going to leave here without salvaging something from the wreckage. "I know you have this thing with Carmel."

 _This thing_ is nothing. _This thing_ is insubstantial, could float away in the breeze.

It's all unraveling now, all slipping from his fingertips and making his mouth loose, words falling out faster than he can try to keep hold of them.

"Have you slept with her?"

He needs to know, might die if he doesn't. He doesn't know why it should matter; he slept with Veronica, was going to sleep with Rae, and he sees what it was now, sees the hollowness of it all, sees how out of his mind he was the entire time.

But this matters. This he gives life to, the kind of life where he can see the kiss, see the undressing, see the way that Carmel arches her back off the bed, the way Brendan moves inside her, the roar as he empties himself. He sees it all, sharp, loud, the smell of it, the mess that they leave behind. He can feel his brow creasing in the way it does when he's trying to keep it all together. He's crumbling in on himself.

 _Get a fucking grip._

"That's none of your business," Brendan says.

Ste had expected that. He'd written the script in his head already, and when he speaks he's measured, clear. He's said too much already and everything now feels inevitable.

"I thought I liked sex with women."

He waits for Brendan to interrupt him, to tell him that he doesn't care about this, doesn't want to hear it, but he doesn't. He looks like he's holding his breath, eyes wide, alert.

"I'm not saying I don't. I'm not saying..." He stops, slides his back against the frame of the door he's leaning on until he's on the floor. He draws up his knees, makes himself smaller, hugs his arms around his body. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Brendan move towards the bed and gently sit down. The action feels intimate. Ste wonders if Brendan notices it too.

He looks at his knees when he speaks now. He could be talking to himself, but he can't escape the knowledge that he isn't. It makes his voice shake, but Brendan doesn't draw attention to it.

"I _do_ like sex with women." He wonders who he's trying to convince; Brendan or himself. He can still hear that shout, _queer_ , and the laughter that would always follow. If he says the words, if he admits it, then there's no taking that back. "But I've..."

He rakes his hands through his hair, can feel the waxy texture of the product that's managed to linger there from earlier this evening. His date with Rae seems a long time ago. A lifetime.

"I've had these moments these past few years."

He almost wishes they would have a defined beginning, these moments. One day he could point to and say that's when it happened, that's when everything changed. But he can't. It's muddied, and sometimes he wonders if it's always been there. It's like a distorted radio that changes its frequency, changes its volume. Sometimes it's been stronger, so loud that it's deafened him, been impossible to bury, and just when he thinks he'll have to tell someone it's been quieter again, something he's been able to push to the background. But it's always come back.

"I had this friend and I..." He's hesitating too much, slowing himself down, but if he goes faster he's worried it won't make sense. He needs Brendan to understand. "We were just friends, but sometimes I..."

"You liked him," Brendan says, and there's no mocking tone this time, no demand for him to grow up.

Ste nods.

"I don't even think I wanted something to happen. Not really. It's just because he was the first mate I had, you know?" He laughs at himself before Brendan does - he doesn't - aware of how pathetic that sounds. "But sometimes when we were alone together I felt... and when he got off with girls I... I didn't like it." He swallows the lump in his throat. "We stopped seeing each other. I used to think we just drifted apart, you know? That it was just one of those things. It happens with everyone. That's what I told Amy. But it was me. I know it was me."

"Because he thought you were..."

Ste internally pleads that Brendan won't use that word again.

"No. Because I thought I was. I didn't want to know him anymore. Not when there was always this chance that I could get drunk and just... just do something stupid."

He shifts a little, unsettled, remembering. Dodged phone calls. Voicemails left by Justin asking where he was, why he hadn't been in contact. Then a slow petering out of it all when Justin gave up, accepting the silence as a sign of rejection. He must have forgotten him, but Ste never had.

"Then I joined the HVF and I met Tony and Warren and Darren. I never thought about any of them like that, did I." He recalls the relief he'd felt when it had all seemed so normal, when he hadn't felt the need to run. "I never felt like that again."

He hesitates even as he says it, knows it's a lie. He thinks of the men on the dating site, men like Callum. The way he'd kept his page saved for months. It's still on his computer somewhere, forever something he knows he should delete, but still it stays. He thinks of the men in the street, the moment of eye contact that's lasted a fraction of a second longer than it should. He thinks of the men in coffee shops and the men in The Loft and the men who wait at the same bus stop as him.

He thinks of this man - this branded monster - and how he means more than anyone else.

"Until you," Ste says, feels more vulnerable and exposed than he ever has. His fingers run along the carpet, and he wonders if Brendan's ever lied against it, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling like Ste used to do when he was a kid. Time would pass slowly, and he'd imagine a whole other life for himself, imagine all the things he could be if he could just be somewhere else.

He must be imagining the warmth of the carpet; must be imagining that it's recently had the press of Brendan's body against it.

"When?"

"What?" Ste says, uneasy at not knowing the question, at not having a careful answer planned.

"When did you start feeling that?"

 _Always._

But he knows it was slower than that, another thing that can't be pinned down and made into something neat, something beautiful in its simplicity. So he says the only thing he can say, the only thing that makes sense.

"You were lying on that bed."

Brendan looks down, startled. His hands brush against the bed covers like it's the first time he's seeing them. He does it again, seemingly addicted, and Ste wonders - wishes - whether he's trying to transport himself back to that time. He'd been ill, had been scared, but Ste's sure that he isn't alone in feeling that there was something safe about it all.

"We were here?" Brendan says.

"You were sick."

Brendan's frown deepens; he doesn't like that word. He's heard it too many times, spat at him with all the others: _Monster. Infected. Killer._

Ste corrects himself.

"You were ill."

Brendan's face clears. Ill is something that happens to people. Ill is kinder.

"I was taking care of you."

He's recalling the story like Brendan's forgotten, and for an agonising moment he thinks that he has. He won't be able to recount the whole thing, won't be able to relive it if he knows that it meant so little to Brendan that the entire thing is lost. He can't. Not when it's become so deeply embedded in Ste's life that he can remember every sound, every smell, every touch.

He had spent one evening searching for the song that Brendan had been playing in his room, and the initial haziness of the memory had seemed to bloom into something vivid in a way that scared him. He didn't understand how something could grow brighter over time, could begin life as something small until it took over everything. The sudden remembrance of the lyrics had resulted in him sitting up straight in bed one night, and the alarm clock's flashing light displaying the early hour hadn't stopped him in his tracks.

 _Go tell that long tongue liar, go and tell that midnight rider, tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter, tell them that God's gonna cut them down._ Johnny Cash, the singer's name was, and Ste had spent the next hour trying to resist listening to every song of his that he could find. He'd failed. It wasn't to his taste, wasn't the kind of music that he would ever normally listen to, but it seemed the natural choice for Brendan. Ste had closed his eyes as he slipped on his headphones and the music began to play, and he felt closer to him.

"I remember," Brendan says, and it drags Ste back from that day and all the days that had connected to it.

The veins are prominent in Ste's hands, another way that his body fails him and exposes his fragility. It feels like his blood is screaming to be released, no longer tame enough to be contained. He sees Brendan staring at his hands, and Ste has a sudden vision of him licking his way over his skin, greedy, possessive, tasting the metallic tang of his blood. He shakes it away, unsure of where it's come from.

"I wanted to lie next to you." He gulps around the words, knows what he's just said. _I wanted to have sex with you._ That's the implication. There would be no lying with Brendan. No sleeping. Not when there's skin to touch and lips against lips. Not when there's nipples tugged by teeth and the strength of Brendan's arms holding him down.

"No," Brendan says, quiet, intimate.

Ste's head darts upwards quickly, and he's all too aware that there's a wall close to him, a wall that he could drive his fist into.

 _No._ No I don't want you. No I will never want you.

Brendan must see the reaction his words have caused; the softness has gone when he speaks now, replaced by a desperate kind of need to keep talking, to make him understand.

"No, I didn't sleep with Carmel."

All the air feels like it's left Ste's lungs, the after effects of a punch without the pain. Something else is flooding him; happiness, pure and white and so warm that he's sure he must have been resting against a radiator this whole time.

"You didn't? You... you haven't?"

Brendan shakes his head, but it's not enough of a confirmation, not even close enough to comfort Ste. A shake of the head could mean he's changed his mind, that he'd lied.

"Tell me, Brendan."

It fills him again, that same warmth, when Brendan says no.

"I haven't slept with her." And then, after a beat, "I'm not going to."

Ste lays his hand against his chest, tries to quieten the rapid thrum of his heart, but it's not working.

"Why not? How can you know that? She wants to. She likes you."

Brendan's hand travels to a loose thread on his trousers, pulling at it.

"What did you think about when I was on this bed?"

The question and the change in direction disarms Ste. He stumbles over his answer, can feel himself colouring in that way of his where he knows it doesn't show on the outside - a small consolation - but he can feel it internally, can feel the heat of it.

 _Don't make me say it._ He looks at Brendan, wills him to hear, but he isn't going to save him with this. He's going to make him say it.

"I thought about kissing you." He doesn't dare look at him. "I thought about... you know."

He feels young all of a sudden. Too young for this, and tired of having to be brave.

"You thought about me fucking you."

Ste looks at him with wide eyes, shocked at the frankness of it all. But it's displaced as quickly as it comes. It's no worse than his own fantasies. No worse than what's been his reality since the day when everything changed, when Brendan went from being someone he had to kill to being someone that made Ste glad to be alive.

"Yeah." Not emphatic enough. Not enough of the truth, when the truth is that he's thought of nothing else. "Yes."

He fidgets, all too aware that Brendan's still sitting on the bed. All too aware that there is a bed. All too aware of what they could be doing.

"I didn't know if rotters could do that." Talking about the mechanics of it all is something easy, something that doesn't scare him half to death. "I heard Jacqui and Rhys talking about it once, and they made it sound like they could. Like you could. But I wasn't sure."

He doesn't know if he's fooling Brendan with this carefully put on act, of how he's deliberately trying to sound like he's calm.

"You wanted to know," Brendan says. There's a steeliness there now, an unmistakable strength. "Because you wanted to. With me."

Ste squirms. He can't keep on pretending. But that doesn't mean that it's any easier to admit to.

"Yes," he says again, more a breath than anything else. "I want to."

The correction doesn't go unnoticed. Brendan slowly gets to his feet. Ste can hear every tread along the carpet, every pad of his feet as he makes his way over to him. The noise of it doesn't do anything to silence the sound of his shaking. Ste can actually hear it, something solid, something that's warning him that it's going to happen. _It_ isn't yet defined, but it's coming, now, and he either runs and spends the rest of his life wondering what could have been, or he stays, makes a choice to be the strong one.

Brendan stops just shy of colliding with him. Their shoes touch.

"Stand up, Steven."

Ste wants to wait, see if Brendan reaches for his hands and pulls him, keeps hold of him. But he doesn't do that. Brendan doesn't hold hands, and it's never been anything that Ste's wanted before. It's new, all of this. What he wants is all so new.

He rises, stands without falling even though he's got pins and needles now, can feel the discomfort and tingling in his legs.

"Look at me," Brendan says. Ste hadn't realised that he wasn't. Rarely has he looked at anything else for a long time.

Behind Brendan is his packed suitcase, ready to go. Carmel will be at the airport in the morning, excited. Ste's shirt lies on the floor, giving the appearance that Brendan's already begun undressing him.

So much of the cover up mousse has faded away that Brendan looks more undead than alive.

Ste sees it before he feels it; the sight of Brendan's hand poised in mid-air, frozen, and then all the doubt vanishes and it sweeps through Ste's hair. Ste jumps at the touch and then relaxes into it, but it's too late. His initial reaction has made Brendan take it away.

"Touch me again," Ste says, his voice sounding unlike his own, and it happens so quickly that he's sure that Brendan knew what he was going to ask. He touches him again.

 _Kiss me._

He doesn't have to ask, because Brendan knows. He leans over, takes Ste's head in his hands, and kisses him.


	33. Chapter 33

They need to talk.

The need to talk but it's hard when he's being backed towards the bed, lowered onto it. It's hard when he's being kissed everywhere - his neck, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, along his jaw, his cheek and then always, always back to his mouth, the focal point.

It's hard to think about talking when he's experiencing a brand new sensation; the scrape of stubble against his own shaven skin, the bristle of Brendan's moustache where he's only been used to the china-smooth skin of a girl.

Back then he'd been aware that he had been the strong one. However much Rae and Amy had wanted him, however demanding their touch had been, however much they'd argued with him, stormed out of a room, given him the silent treatment, he'd known that his body was stronger on top of theirs. More solid, more able to make them break.

He knew because he had broken a girl once. More than once.

He has no such certainty now.

It makes him pull back from the kiss, makes him lean away. There's a new body beside him, a new body trying to climb on top of him, and he knows it's more powerful than his own.

 _Stop._

He almost says it, but then he can feel Brendan stroking his arm. He shivers into the touch, and he lets go. Gives himself permission not to be the strong one.

He's never kissed anyone like this. He's never wanted to. He's wanted _them_ \- the life he could have with them, Amy and their kids, but he's never lied with someone like this, never felt the breath being kissed out of him, never had to gasp for it back.

It's strange that it's not strange. It's wrong that it's not wrong. It doesn't _feel_ wrong, and he's aware of all the reasons why it should. _A man. Not even a man. A rotter. A rotter that I've been assigned to kill. No future. No hope. No good that can come of it._

Ste kisses him back, keeps kissing him, does it until everything else is silenced.

His head's against the pillow, Brendan pressing him down with his weight. This is what Ste had dreamed about that day; both of them here together on this bed. There's nothing ill about Brendan now, nothing weak. If he'd been affected by drinking at the club then it doesn't show. He's all eager kisses and touches that demand attention, demand a reaction. When he runs his teeth over Ste's neck he elicits a keening sound, low, nothing like Ste's ever made before. He didn't even know that he _could_ make that sound.

Brendan's moustache is becoming wet with salvia. When they take a break to get their breath back - fast, wished away - Ste traces his fingers over it, feels it prickle under his touch, and their eyes meet. Lock. Something shared, some kind of intense relief, an amazement. _We've just done that._ A smile, because now that's it's done it feels ridiculous that it wasn't done sooner. That it hasn't always been like this.

He can feel Brendan's erection against his thigh.

"Wait," Ste says.

It's real now, more real, and he wants to - wants to do _that_ \- but the questions are back, the things they need to talk about, and he's scared. He's never done that before, never been this close, and there's a battle raging inside his head, tearing him in two.

His body tells him that he's ready. His hands seemingly move of their own accord, reaching out to pull Brendan closer to him. His mouth, searching, desperate, not satisfied until it finds Brendan's.

Ste's hard inside his trousers, and there's a sudden instinct to cover his hand in front of the prominent outline until he realises that he doesn't have to, that this man feels it too. The wanting, the wishing.

He knows that Brendan can feel how hard he is. There isn't enough space separating them for him not to feel it, and his eyes darken with desire, unconcealed hunger changing them until the blue of his contact lenses appears black.

His hands move from Ste's face, lower, until they settle against his trousers. The zip. The buckle.

Ste's never given a blow job before. He's never been fucked. He's seen it plenty of times on a computer screen, headphones on, the flat to himself, his bed covers shrouding him like a makeshift tent. It was just something he did, not a secret because a secret implied that he was trying to hide it, constantly thinking about it, weighing him down, too much to take. This he did, and then he buried it. Didn't think about it.

He could turn the computer off. He could make the screen grow black. He can't turn this off.

"Stop," he says, thinks he'll have to say it again, _stop, wait, don't,_ but all it takes is the once. Brendan stops, takes his hands away. Looks at him. It hasn't gone away, that darkness in his eyes. He's still hard, panting. His lips look red. Used.

"What?" He sounds like he's coming out of a deep sleep, dazed, his voice thick.

"I'm not..."

Ste shifts a little in the bed until Brendan gives him some space. He needs it; he can't think clearly when he's this close.

"Okay," Brendan says.

Ste looks at him, sees that he understands. He doesn't know how; he hasn't said anything.

"Yeah?"

Brendan nods. "But this, yeah?" He kisses him again, deep, slow. His tongue darts out to meets Ste's, and it's only then that he realises that it's not the first time they've done that. He hadn't even noticed. It had just happened.

"Yeah."

It isn't that kissing's safe, because all he can think about when he's kissing him is what it would be like if he wasn't. If they were doing more.

But the thought of not kissing him is impossible.

"We really do need to talk though," Ste says, the words coming out in fragments because Brendan's distracting him, lips and tongue and teeth, and even though they're not doing everything the _something_ is still enough. The slip and slide of their bodies, the gentle tug of Ste's hair as Brendan angles him closer, and the warmth. So much warmth, and it wouldn't be difficult to lose his shirt, to undo the buttons one by one, to watch as Brendan's own lands on a heap on the floor alongside the discarded yellow shirt.

Ste can see it when he opens his eyes. Time doesn't seem to have the same meaning now; it feels like hours ago that he'd demanded to know why the shirt was packed in Brendan's suitcase. Hours ago that they weren't together like this. Hours ago that he hadn't known what Brendan's mouth tasted like. He can taste the alcohol that Brendan had earlier, can smell it too, but the more he kisses him the more it's replaced by _him_. Only him, untouched by any other layer or chemical.

Ste chases it, and it makes him clumsy. Their noses bump, painful, but _fuck it,_ they get over it.

They find their rhythm. Teeth collide in their hurry, the sense of time escaping them, never enough time, could never be enough. Lips are bitten, and they can't be sure whose, but they know it doesn't matter. There's the faint taste of blood before it dissolves and there's the smell of something else too, and the sight of it: it's on Ste's hands, orange, and it takes him a moment to realise what it is. He looks at it while Brendan's kissing his neck, his ear.

The cover up mousse.

It's rubbed away, off Brendan's skin and onto his own. When he focues on Brendan's face - it takes him a moment to be able to see it, feels like he's being dragged back through a fog - he's pale, the true colour of his skin no longer hidden underneath the make-up.

He's seen him looking.

"What?" Brendan says, and Ste's never heard his voice sound like this before. It's different. Intimate.

Ste holds up his hand, shows him with a laugh. Brendan doesn't return it.

"Sorry." He turns away, hides his face, loos like he's waiting for a rebuttal of some kind. For Ste to run, for him to say he's made a mistake. Ste recognises it; shares the fear.

"No." He shakes his head, needs to make Brendan understand because he can feel him pulling away. He can't have that. Not now. Not after what they've just done.

He reaches out, touches his face, and doing so only reminds him of all the times when he couldn't. All the times when he wanted to.

"Don't be sorry."

He swipes a thumb over Brendan's chin, over an area where the cover up mousse has lingered. Another swipe. All gone.

Ste hadn't noticed how much he'd been touching him before now. He hadn't seen that his hands must have been everywhere. His lips. He sits back a little, admiring his handiwork. If he didn't have his contacts in then he'd be the Brendan he met in the cage. The Brendan who had made him want to run.

He's not running now.

Ste kisses him again, does it with his eyes open so that Brendan knows that he can see him - can see all of him - and he's okay with it. He _likes_ it.

He closes his eyes, speaks through gasps.

"Cheryl."

"She's out, you know she is."

Ste's sentences aren't fully formed. He can feel hands under his shirt, hands against his bare skin, grabbing flesh, squeezing, stroking, and he isn't used to this. He isn't used to wanting it all this much.

"Back though... she's got to come back... middle of the night..."

Each word hums against Brendan's lips, out of Ste's mouth and into his. They share the same air, the same breath.

Brendan's answer is to push him onto his back again, and Ste can feel his hands being pinned to the bed, He lifts his head up as much as he can. _Kiss me again._

More questions. More kisses.

"Barcelona."

Brendan's tonguing his ear, biting on the delicate skin. Ste almost loses his train of thought, but he forces himself to remember. This is important. This is Brendan leaving on a plane in the morning with someone else. This is Brendan leaving him.

"You have to tell Carmel."

He's said that name too many times, knows it's not her fault but he hates her. The blonde hair, the uniform, the bun piled high on her head, the smear of red lipstick that he's had to watch being transferred from her mouth to Brendan's cheek. He hates that he has no reason to hate her at all; the smile, the sunshine persona, the willingness to forgive him even after the way he'd treated her.

"I mean it, Brendan."

There's an undoing of buttons, slow at first, then giving way to impatience. Brendan makes it halfway before he gives up, tugs at them. One lands on the bed, torn from the fabric. _Oops._ His eyes are unapologetic; he looks at the button like it's an irritant. Collateral damage.

Ste's wearing a vest underneath. Brendan's fingers scale it, the material bunched under his touch. Another irritant. Unnecessary. Too many clothes separating them.

Ste's arms are lifted. He knows what's coming, and there's a a shiver of uncertainty. _Not ready. Too soon._ But it's weeks - months - that he's wanted to be touched like this. Exactly like this.

His vest is discarded, goosebumps peppering his skin.

"It's cold."

He only realises that he'd meant it as an invitation when he feels the relief of Brendan lying full length on top of him, the heat of him transferring onto Ste's body. They hold onto each other, and when Ste mumbles it again - _Barcelona, Carmel, she has to know_ \- it's feeble, going through the motions. She can't touch them, not here. Barcelona can't reach them. _Leaving_ sounds like something make believe, and Brendan leaving him is no more grounded in reality than the fairytales that Ste reads to his children.

He's being held so tightly that it can't last, can't continue without him being crushed, but he doesn't try to move. When Brendan lets go, gives him some space, some room to breathe, Ste hangs on round his neck, tries to nestle him closer again.

"Better?" Brendan says.

Ste nods. _Better_. He's not cold now. He's not alone anymore.

"But..."

"But what?" Brendan says, looks like he'll do anything to put it right.

Ste trails his hand down the front of Brendan's clothes.

"This."

One button opened. A glimpse of hair. It's a start but it's not enough.

Ste holds his breath, reaches for another button. If he does this then they'll both be half-naked, and he know where this could end. Where it will end, one day.

His hands are steady. Sure. Another button. Another. He doesn't do what Brendan had done - doesn't pull or break, doesn't rush. He takes his time, doesn't know where to settle his eyes at first - Brendan's face or Brendan's body - but in the end his choice is clear. He can't look away, can't look at anything but this, the steady rise and fall of Brendan's chest. The gradual reveal of it, the strength, everything that's different to everyone he's been with before. Brendan helps him, shrugs his shirt off his shoulders. It lands on the floor with the rest of their clothes, tangled, uncivilised.

His shoulders are broad, defined. Ste's eyes travel over him, trying to take in everything at once, not able to. He's glad he can't see what he looks like right now; he isn't sure he'd recognise himself.

"Can I..." He wets his lips, hears the smack of it, his mouth as dry as a desert. He has to ask permission, has to because this still doesn't seem possible. He's in limbo, torn between dream and reality, and if Brendan told him to stop he wouldn't be surprised.

He doesn't tell him to stop.

He leans forward in the bed, makes it easier on him, makes the distance less when Ste reaches out. Then there's no distance. No gap separating them, no turning back. Ste's hands roam over muscles, hard, like nothing he's ever felt. He's been used to soft skin, pliable, _female_. Waxed hair, the swell of breasts. There's nothing waxed about this body. He can feel hair under his fingertips, the darkness of it covering Brendan's chest, peeking out from underneath his arms.

He's so transfixed that he doesn't initially realise that Brendan's not the only one on display. Ste's never felt this exposed before. Never had someone look at him like this - _properly_ look at him, make him feel that there's no part of him that isn't being scrutinised. Except he doesn't feel judged, and his momentary instinct to cover up, to shield his body with his hands, vanishes. A dream. That's how he's been looked at. Like he's a dream, bound to disappear but being held onto for dear life.

Never before has he been so aware of the contrasts of their bodies as they come together. He knows Brendan could crush him, and when he angles his hands around Ste's wrists he imagines all his bones snapping. They don't; their mutual strength leaves the bed covers scattered, the sheets wrinkled. This is what sex with this man is like. He's always known it, always had it in the back of his mind, enough to make his blood rush and his skin be acutely aware of every touch. The opposite of silence, the opposite of everything his life has been up to now.

His fingers glide over the large tattoo on Brendan's arm, the cross that he's only glimpsed before, never seen up close. It's a question for another day: why he got it, what it all means. To ask him seems at odds with what they're doing here now, and Brendan doesn't ask about Ste's own tattoo that covers his hip. He touches it, pressing down with enough intensity that it makes Ste wince. The material of his trousers is rolled down to give Brendan better access when he leans and kisses it. He stays there, his hair spiked in every direction from where Ste's caressed and grabbed and coiled his fingers through it.

Brendan inches Ste's trousers lower, gives Ste time to stop him if he wants to. He lifts his bum up from the bed, makes it easier for Brendan. The trousers come off with minimal effort, revealing white underwear and his dick straining against the cotton, stretching the fabric. He hears a noise; something strangled, an intake of breath and then a sigh, long-held.

Ste doesn't know what to do with his legs, too gangly, too in the way, but his decision is made for him. They're stroked, along where the hair grows and then against the grain, back and forth until he wants to beg Brendan to do more. He's getting closer, thumb narrowly missing his dick as his strokes intensify and move to his thighs, but he avoids the area. Ste starts to sense that it's deliberate. Teasing. Making him want more. It's working.

He wants to do something. Wants to take off his underwear. He doesn't know how it's possible to want something unknown this much. To already anticipate the feel of lips on him, the texture of Brendan's moustsache, the dart of a tongue as it seeks and explores. He has to stop himself from crying out when the bed dips and Brendan rises, moves away from him. _Don't go._

But he's not leaving. He's undressing. The cling of his black trousers is replaced by a whisper of skin and solid muscle. He takes his time, and if he's trying to get Ste to look at him then he doesn't have to - doesn't have to try, because he is. He is looking, can't do anything else, and nothing could have prepared him for this. Everything that he'd imagined, it feels no more substantial than a ghost. This is what's alive. This is what's real. Brendan standing in front of him, nothing more than a pair of black boxers covering him.

This isn't like the men on the dating site. This isn't like the men online that Ste's seen, preening and posing, their bodies gym-honed, muscles and veins bulging. This isn't behind a screen, untouchable, forever out of reach. This is _his_.

He doesn't look dead. The thought is startling, an invasion when he doesn't want to be thinking about that, but there it is. A stubborn belief that there must be some kind of mistake, that Brendan can't be one of them, can't be a rotter, because nothing about him is dead or wrong or anything but impossibly beautiful. He never knew a man could be that way.

There are tell-tale signs: the transparency of his skin, too unlike human paleness. The ring of dirt around his fingernails. But his body - strong, emphatically male - is both like any other and set apart. Normal and extraordinary.

"Come here," Brendan says, and Ste answers to it like he has no choice.

He's aware of Brendan watching him, has never felt someone's eyes on him like this before. He's not sure anyone else has ever cared enough to look.

"There's no lock on the door."

Ste doesn't know what to say to this. Is he being told to leave? That Brendan doesn't want to risk them being caught?

"We'll have to find something to keep it closed, won't we?"

Ste lets out a yelp when he's spun around and backed against the door. He hears the noise it makes when his skull hits it, but he doesn't feel it. He can't feel anything but Brendan's hands easing down his underwear and lips finding lips as they kiss. Ste's underwear drops and there's a hand on his thigh, gently trying to lift it, and he takes the hint; lifts up his legs, kicks off his pants where they've settled around his ankles.

He doesn't break the kiss, but then he has to; Brendan's breaking it for him, leaning back to look. He isn't trying to hide it. His eyes wander without concealment, and his hands wander too; Ste breathes in sharply when he strokes the cheeks of his arse, and he knows what's coming.

"Brendan."

It's all he can manage. _Keep going_ is too long. _Don't stop_ too obvious when his dick is this hard, pressing against Brendan's stomach with every step closer. Until they can't get any closer. Until there are no more steps to take.

He feels it. A hand curving around his cock, the lightest of touches that's enough to make him lean back against the door, needing something to anchor him. And then that one word, _please_ , that he swore he would never say to this man. Would never ask him for anything, would never beg, but once it falls from his lips it's easy now, so easy, to repeat.

"Please," he says, and he kisses him, coaxing, all too clear in its intention, a kiss for what he wants. A kiss in exchange for more.

He's had this before. Rae, Amy, other girls. Their hands on his cock, their tongues in his mouth, their lips around him. He doesn't know why it had never felt like this.

Ste gives up on trying to kiss him. He's lost the ability to do two things at once, and he can do little more than rest against the crook of Brendan's shoulder as he strokes him. His mouth secures around the slope of it, Brendan's neck growing damp with the heat of his breath. He bites down when Brendan's hand moves faster. Brendan doesn't pull away, doesn't ask him what he's doing. He responds; picks up the pace.

He's going to come soon - too soon, but he can't even bring himself to be embarrassed - but Brendan has other ideas. He lets go of him, brings his hand up to his mouth. Tastes it. Regards him.

"Why did you stop?" He's talking to Brendan's mouth. It's pink. Wet.

Brendan sinks to his knees.

He's done this before. He _must_ have done this before. There's no hesitancy, no fear, no pulling back or gagging.

 _Who are they? How many? What did they mean to you?_

But he can't ask him, can't even hold onto the thought because Brendan's taking his cock deeper into his mouth, has his hands on his bum, is moving Ste's hips for him. Ste braces himself against the door, his back sliding, slippery with sweat. He looks down at the crown of Brendan's head, the bobbing motion, the sounds he makes. The _pop_ as he draws back to get enough air before he angles him into his mouth again, still holding onto Ste's body to stop him from buckling.

Then he can't look. He has to close his eyes, can feel his hands curling into fists, and then there's a thump against the door. He thinks it must be Brendan before he feels the twinge of pain in his hand. There's a laugh below him, low, satisfied.

He comes, can't stop it, and Brendan must have lessened his grip because Ste's on the floor now, is aware of the wetness of Brendan's hand and his stomach lightly decorated with semen. His chest has flushed a mottled pink, and his eyes are still closed as his mind catches up with his body and tries to process what's happened. What he's done. What's been done to him.

When he opens them he's met with watchful eyes searching his. Wary. Waiting.

Ste smiles, sees Brendan visibly relax.

"I'll get you tissues," Brendan says.

"I'll get them."

He gets to his feet, feels the strangeness of being naked while Brendan's still in his underwear. His cock swings between his legs, soft now, and he wants to laugh when he thinks about where it's just been.

"I'll be back in a minute."

It's too easy. Too easy to kiss him now after what they've done, and Brendan's just standing there, and he's _him_ , and Ste doesn't know what they ever did before there was this. All that time spent talking and fighting against him and wanting him gone, when they could have been like this. Exactly like this. Ste inclines his head, waits, and in no time at all he's met with the softness of lips and the tickle of his moustache, and the idea of leaving is something abstract.

But he knows he needs a minute alone. He needs to process this, make sure that it's real.

He untangles himself, doesn't know exactly when Brendan's hands found their way to his dick again, because it's that thing again - that sense that this and the kisses and the touching - it's what it's like now. It's what they're like now.

"One minute."

Brendan looks like that minute apart is too long.

Ste reaches for his underwear.

"Why are you getting dressed?" Brendan says, has the words out before Ste's even managed to get his pants half way up his legs.

"Your Cheryl could come back. I don't want her to find me like this." He grins at the idea, but Brendan doesn't; his face clouds over, and Ste feels the need to keep talking. Keep going to make it go back to how it was. "But she's probably at a mate's house like you said. Just in case though."

"Yeah. Just in case."

"Right. I'll just..."

He darts out of the room, and the cold hits him once he's in the hallway. He runs to the bathroom, feels like a kid caught out, and he has the same feeling that he gets when he's home alone. The way that it feels like the house is coming alive, the sudden influx of noises and creaks. The fear that there's someone else there, about to jump out at him.

Cheryl could have come home. He could have missed the sound of her key in the lock.

Or Amy could be here. Could find him here, could see him coming out of Brendan's bedroom.

Reality hits when he's in the bathroom, when the noises - real or imagined - cease. He doubts Cheryl could be quiet for anyone. If she was here then he'd know about it. And Amy doesn't even know that Brendan exists.

 _Amy._

Fuck.

He hasn't told her why he isn't at home.

His hand automatically goes to where his trousers would be, to where his phone would be if he wasn't in only his underwear after being sucked off by Brendan.

Sucked off. By a man.

He lets out a laugh, leans against the bath. He takes a handful of tissues, starts to clean himself up.

He can still feel Brendan's hands everywhere.

He knows what he wants to do. He knows what's going to happen when he goes back into that room. He's thought about this a hundred times, in a hundred different situations, but the uncertainty had never crept in before. In his dreams he'd been good at it; he'd known how to do it and he'd brought Brendan to his knees. He hadn't laughed at him.

His stomach's clean now. He bins the tissues, looks at himself.

He wasn't expecting a dramatic change. He doesn't get one. No one would ever know what he's just done, not even people he's known almost his whole life.

But he feels wide awake. The shadows under his eyes are still there, still dark enough to look like a bruise, but he feels completely alert. Ready to stay up all night. Ready to see what's on the other side of this door.

He traces the shape of his lips. They feel tender, but not tender enough; he knows the first thing he'll do is kiss him. Before they say anything. Before he texts Amy. He has to kiss him again.

He opens the door, jumps a little when he's not met with an open hallway but instead looks into blue eyes, and he doesn't know who moves first but they're kissing again, bodies stumbling, spinning. He isn't aware of which direction they're going in but he's being steered, hears the sound of a door opening and feels hands on his chest. Pressing. Pushing. A moment where he feels like he's flying backwards before he's cushioned by the bed, and then a hard weight on top of him.

It scares him how much he wants this.

"Amy..."

He doesn't even know if it makes sense, if he gets the word out properly between kisses, so he tries again.

"Got to text her..."

He sounds like he's gasping, getting in as much air as he can in the hope that he won't need it again. That they can keep on doing this, keep kissing, and he won't ever have to stop.

"She'll be worried..."

His phone is in the pocket of his trousers. His trousers are on the floor. Brendan's on the bed. The choice doesn't seem fair.

But he doesn't have to decide. He's lifted, clings on with his legs around Brendan's waist and his arms around his neck, but it's unnecessary. Brendan's holding him, grip secure, not letting him fall.

He lowers him gently, lets Ste fumble around on the floor to find his phone. Locating it isn't difficult, but texting is. What Brendan's doing is distracting; the persistent feel of teeth against his earlobe, the lick of his tongue against his skin.

Ste keeps it short. _Won't be back to tonight. See you in the morning._

He tries to pretend he hasn't seen the missed calls. The messages asking him if he's okay. He knows what she'll think, that the date with Rae has turned into an all-nighter.

Brendan takes the phone from him, puts it out of sight in the drawer beside his bed. Ste looks to see if he's brought anything out of it; a condom, an expectation of what's about to happen.

He hasn't. Ste almost asks, doesn't know if he's ready but the fear that he'd felt before is being crowded out by the certainty that Brendan's got him. That whatever happens he'll make it okay, will look after him.

But there's something else he wants to try first.

They come together in the middle of the bed. Ste feels overdressed in his underwear; when it's off again there's little of the shyness that he had initially felt. He can't feel self conscious, not when Brendan's looking at him like he's everything that anyone could ever want.

Now it's his turn.

He tugs on Brendan's boxers between kisses, tries to drag them down with his eyes closed. He waits for the feeling of fabric to be replaced by the feeling of skin, but he's shaken off. He knows he's sulking at being shrugged away; Brendan looks down at his protruding bottom lip, laughs.

He stands, looks him dead in the eye, and Ste knows what's coming. He wants to take in everything, wants to remember it all. Brendan Brady, undressing for him.

There's hair around his dick. Dark. He's erect, and big, and suddenly Ste's relieved that Brendan didn't bring out a condom. The idea of _that_ being inside him seems impossible, and his resolve in the bathroom teeters. He isn't sure how he'll even take it into his mouth.

Brendan must see the doubt in his eyes. He kisses him, and if he's trying to calm him down then it's working. A hand strokes down his back, repetitive, reassuring, and when Ste feels Brendan's cock pressing against his stomach he doesn't feel startled by it. He moves him hand from Brendan's waist, feels for his cock, notices how Brendan responds with his tongue in his mouth, the soft sigh of approval.

"Can I..." Ste says, hopes this will be like before and Brendan will know what he's thinking without him having to tell him.

He shivers when he feels Brendan's mouth at his ear. His breath.

"Go on."

"You know." He keeps stroking him.

"Tell me."

Ste licks along Brendan's mouth, leaving a sheen of saliva. He knows. He must know.

"Go down on you." Another kiss, more of a bite. "Can I?"

"Go on then." Brendan pulls back a little, and Ste can see how much he wants this. Wants him. "Go down."

He moves, jostling a space in between Brendan's legs. When he swallows the sound seems to fill the room, marking him out, _scared_ , but he isn't being rushed. There are no hands on his head pushing him. There's no teasing, no bubble of laughter at his inexperience.

Tentatively he sucks. Not all of it; he starts slow, gets used to the feel of it, the idea of it. Another thing that he's thought about, that's been in the back of his head, but always at a distance. There is no distance now, no avoiding the fact that he's doing this, that he wants to be doing this. _No turning back._ It flashes in his mind like a neon sign, and he doesn't know whether it's a warning or a welcome.

He wants to ask if this is okay. If what he's doing with his hand and his lips and his tongue is good, is enough, but when he takes his mouth away to speak Brendan raises his head off the pillow. His eyes are unfocused, glossy.

"You okay?"

It's strange getting used to this new voice of Brendan's that he's heard in here tonight. Ste wonders if he sounds different too.

He nods.

"I just... Sorry, I don't..."

"You don't want to?" Brendan sits up a little. He doesn't look angry. Doesn't look at Ste like he's wasted his time.

"No, I do."

He really fucking does.

"I just..." He looks down awkwardly, hand still around Brendan's cock, lips still tasting of him.

"Go slow."

Brendan reaches for him, smooths his hair back. Smiles.

Ste opens his mouth wide, feeds him into it. And then he stops thinking at all.

Everything is sensation. Touch. Texture. The noises coming from above him, the thump of a hand on the mattress. When Ste gags a little it doesn't seem to matter. He tries again, and still there's that hand in his hair, at the crown of his head. The questions - _Is this okay? Am I doing it right?_ \- they don't need to be asked any more.

He can tell when Brendan's about to come. This body's still new to him, its reactions, the feel of it, but the noises have changed. They're louder, less controlled, and there's the power that comes from realising that he's the one who's producing them. Him, doing that.

He leans back before Brendan's finished. Ste can feel something wet on his chin; he wipes the cum from it, makes a split-second decision to swallow what's in his mouth. He doesn't know if Brendan will want to kiss him straight after but he does. Ste crawls up his body, and this time it's him who's on top of Brendan. When they kiss he thinks about where his mouth has just been, what he's just done. What he knows he'll do again.

There's a moment where he doesn't know if they're going to lie there separately or whether they're going to come together. He can see Brendan look at the trail of clothes on the floor, and Ste doesn't know if he's expected to get dressed and go.

What if that's all this was ever going to be?

"I could go home." He feels miserable saying it. Sounds miserable.

He wants to be held. He doesn't know where the impulse comes from. This after part, this time after sex, it's always felt like his job. His job to do the holding.

Brendan reaches a hand across the bed, pats down on it.

"Stay."

Ste isn't sure that he manages to hide his smile.

He gathers the covers over them. He's still hot from what they've just done and guesses that Brendan is too, but lying side by side isn't the same as this. Being in a bed, naked skin against naked skin, falling asleep together - this feels permanent.

Brendan lifts his arm. Ste doesn't wait to see what it means; he tucks himself close.

"And are you staying?" He keeps going when Brendan frowns. "Tomorrow. Or... today. In the morning. Carmel and Barcelona and the holiday." His eyes adjust to the dark as he watches Brendan turn out the light. It's easier to speak when he knows he can't be seen.

"I'll talk to her."

Ste rests a hand on Brendan's chest.

"Yeah?" Ste says.

"Yeah. I'm staying."


End file.
